


Seven Days in June

by fourth_rose



Series: Seven Days in June [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco in the Muggle World, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, written before book 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-15
Updated: 2010-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-06 07:32:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 46,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourth_rose/pseuds/fourth_rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war is over, the survivors are moving on. The hero is finally allowed to go on leave – and meets an old enemy, who is working in a Muggle profession in a city without magic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written before the publication of "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows", and is therefore canon-compliant only up to book 6.
> 
> Many thanks to Cloudlessnights, my faithful beta, and to my readers on Livejournal, Skyehawke, and FictionAlley for their support and encouragement during the two years it took me to finish this story!

** _June 15th, 2005_ **

 

 

The burial vaults under St Michael's Church were little more than dark, damp tunnels that had been haphazardly dug into the ground; it seemed strange that they should once have been prestigious resting places for the highborn and wealthy. The painted wooden coffins stood in orderly rows with just enough space to walk between them; they looked solid even after centuries under the earth.

 

Harry followed the guide, who was telling the little group of tourists about the history of the baroque vaults in a tone that made it clear he had recited the same text hundreds of times before. Harry let his mind wander; he had his own reasons for being here, and art history had very little to do with them.

 

The guide rounded a corner, and the tourists who trudged after him gasped: in the room they'd entered, the lids of the coffins had been removed, and their contents were illuminated by the gloomy light of the little lanterns along the wall. Most of the coffins were filled with nothing but crumbling dust, but over in the corner, there were a few which contained _something_ that looked almost like... mummies.

 

The guide gave them an ironic smile, as if he wanted to let them know how pathetic he found the morbid curiosity that made them rush over and gape at the contents of the coffins in rapt fascination. In the same bored voice as before, he started talking about underground water currents, their energy causing the bodies of those interred above to mummify instead of rotting; he pointed out the body of a man who had been run over and killed by a cart wheel which had crushed his chest, then the corpse of a young woman who had died from renal failure while giving birth, her dried-out belly rounded and her yellow-brown face bloated for eternity.

 

While the others stared and bemoaned the fact that it was much too dark to take proper pictures, Harry stepped up to a wall and cautiously put his hand on the clammy stone. The soft tingling under his palm confirmed his suspicions; he closed his eyes and concentrated.

 

Energy. The Muggle guide had got that much right, but it had nothing to do with the water. What Harry felt, what had kept rot away from these bodies, were the remnants of magic. It was not a kind of magic he was familiar with; it was old and faded, too weak to be channelled and used, almost too far gone to be perceived by anyone but those who knew what to look for – and most certainly irretrievable. This was no place where magic thrived; it had died here a long time ago and had left nothing but lingering echoes behind.

 

Taking a deep, relieved breath, Harry backed away from the wall and gladly followed the guide, who was ushering them out. He was eager to go back towards the sunlight, into the streets of a city where the memories of dead magic had sunken into the soil without leaving any trace in the world above.

 

He had been right to come to Vienna.


	2. June 16th, 2005

** _June 16th, 2005_ **

 

Harry found out rather quickly that he wasn't any good at being a tourist. It didn't come as a big surprise; this was, after all, the first time in his life he'd ever left Britain, and the idea of going to a place for no other purpose than _looking at it_ still seemed – strange somehow. For as long as he remembered, there had been things that needed to be done: cooking, cleaning or weeding the garden at number 4, Privet Drive, studying and avoiding being killed at Hogwarts, then the time of planning, plotting and fighting that had been the war. And afterwards, his desk at Auror Headquarters which always seemed to be overflowing with paperwork.

 

Now, for the first time, he had nothing to do but to – how had Arthur Weasley put it? – _have a good time_. However he was supposed to go about that.

 

After his little foray into the Viennese underground yesterday, he'd spent the rest of the day wandering aimlessly through the streets of the inner city, looking around and trying to connect the things he saw with the information which Hermione's battered guide book provided. It had been interesting for a while, but he got bored eventually, and when his feet started to hurt, he'd returned early to the hotel that Hermione had helped him pick out. The first evening of his very first holiday had been spent with NBC and CNN, the only TV channels in English that the telly in his sterile, impersonal hotel room would provide.

 

Harry realised that he had totally underestimated how unused to the Muggle world he was by now.

 

So after breakfast today, he'd finally caved and asked the concierge if he had any recommendations about how to spend seven days in Vienna when one didn't have a clue where to begin. The man hadn't seemed overly enthusiastic about the request, but he'd still been helpful, handing him a whole pack of maps, leaflets and folders and recommending a guided tour through the inner parts of the city. Obviously, there was a regular schedule of guided city walks, and the concierge had looked it up for him and suggested a tour that was going to start at 2 p.m. today. He'd marked the meeting point on one of the maps he'd given Harry and wished him a nice day, obviously relieved to be finally rid of him.

 

Therefore, Harry was standing on the square beside the State Opera building now, looking around to see where the tour was supposed to start. This was clearly one of the more touristy spots, given the amount of people with cameras and strange headgear wandering around between a couple of men in some kind of 18th century outfit who were advertising upcoming concerts. Finally Harry spotted a burly woman in her fifties holding up a sign that read "Wiener Stadtspaziergänge – Vienna City Walks".

 

At two o'clock, at least fifty people had gathered around the woman. Frowning, she dug a mobile phone out of her bag and made a call before addressing the crowd. First she spoke a few words in German; then, to Harry's relief, she switched to English.

 

"Welcome to today's Vienna City Walk which will take us to the main sights in the first district. This tour was supposed to be in German and English, but since there's such a huge group today, we'll have to change the plan. May I ask how many of you want a tour in English?" When about thirty people raised their hands, she nodded briskly. "We'll split the tour, then. I've just called my colleague who will await us at St Stephen's cathedral to take over the part in English. Now if you'll please step up to me to get your tickets?"

 

After they'd started walking along a pedestrian area that seemed to be one of Vienna's posh shopping lanes, the constant switching between two languages – one of which he didn't understand – was soon beginning to grate on Harry's nerves. He was therefore quite thankful when the street opened up into a huge square that was dominated by the looming gothic spire of St Stephen's cathedral which, Harry mused, would have been a sight to behold if it hadn't been half-hidden by scaffolding. A young, dark-haired man was waiting for them beside the cathedral and took over the English-speaking half of the group with a nod to his colleague.

 

When their new guide began to talk about the cathedral, Harry breathed a sigh of relief. The woman had spoken with a thick accent, but this fellow's drawl was unmistakeably British. Harry guessed that he should be content to get the city's highlights served on a silver platter now – but something was off. _Something_ seemed to be nagging at the back of his brain since the man had first opened his mouth, an unease that Harry wasn't able to place although it felt strangely familiar.

 

Harry frowned and took a closer look at the guide. A slender man in his mid-twenties with a pale, angular face, broad cheekbones and a pointy chin, eyes hidden by dark sunglasses, long, black hair tied back in a ponytail. He was wearing faded jeans, a T-shirt and trainers; nothing that seemed out of the average in any way. Yet, Harry's unease grew with every minute he listened to that voice which he could have sworn he'd heard before.

 

During the whole time it took the group to walk around the cathedral, Harry was racking his brain to no avail. Realisation came when the guide led them into the cathedral and took off his sunglasses to reveal grey eyes that seemed even paler in contrast to the black lashes and eyebrows.

 

Harry stopped dead, not caring that the man behind him bumped into him and then shouldered past with an irritated mutter. It wasn't – couldn't... but he had seen these eyes hundreds of times, although they had been fringed by lashes of the palest blond then, and always shining with hatred –

 

The guide had turned towards him, and when he saw Harry standing frozen on the spot, he gave him a sneer that was all too familiar. "Well, well," he said in a tone that, even after all these years, was the equivalent of a nail on a chalkboard to Harry, "long time no see, Potter."

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

Two hours later, Harry was once more standing at the square beside the State Opera, wondering whether he had just had a very strange sort of hallucination.

 

Malfoy, of all people. Draco Malfoy, the mean, cowardly brat who had gone out of his way to make Harry's life at Hogwarts a living hell. Who had subsequently disappeared without a trace eight years ago after fleeing from Hogwarts with Snape on that horrible day of Dumbledore's death.

 

The heir to one of the most snobbish and racist pureblood families, then just one step away from following his father's footsteps, was working as a tour guide for Muggles in a city without magic. Harry looked back over his shoulder to the spot where a few people of their group were still gathered around Malfoy, obviously bombarding him with questions and handing over tips which he accepted with a perfectly polite smile. Harry shook his head. Appearances be damned, there was no way in hell _this_ could really be Draco Malfoy – no more than Flitwick would give up teaching in favour of a career as a night club bouncer.

 

Still, Harry kept watching from a distance until even the most curious tourists finally ran out of questions and left. When he was alone at last, Malfoy turned towards the Opera building where a young, blond woman who had been standing under the arcades for quite a while was waving at him. He walked over, kissed her on both cheeks and then, an arm draped around her shoulders, wandered off with her. Harry stared after them until he lost sight of them in the crowd.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

Another two hours of aimless strolling through winding, cobbled streets later, Harry finally decided that he would not let the strange encounter with his least favourite schoolmate ruin his holidays. Whether it had really been Malfoy or not – and Harry had to admit to himself that _not_ was a very unlikely option – he was here to enjoy himself, not to hunt down the last remnants of Death Eater families. Besides, to the best of Harry's knowledge, Malfoy junior had never actually become a fully-fledged Death Eater, albeit not for a lack of trying. Harry had forced himself to make his peace with Snape – he would _never_ forgive the man for killing Dumbledore, but he had come to realise what it had cost him after Snape had proved his true loyalties in the final stage of the war. Compared to that, ignoring the fact that Draco Malfoy was in the same city shouldn't be too hard.

 

Also, he'd be damned if he'd spend another fine summer evening watching CNN. On the underground, he had overheard two American girls gush about the State Opera – "Oh my God, it's _totally_ gorgeous, I'm going _every_ evening while I'm here, it's _so_ worth waiting in line for a standing room ticket, and they're so _cheap_, can you believe it?" and had realised that he'd never heard an opera in his entire life. Now seemed a good time to change that.

 

After a bit of asking around – those fellows in 18th century gear were good for something, after all – he found the back entrance of the opera house where a lot of people were queuing. Harry realised quickly that things were done rather differently here – there was far more jostling and shoving going on in the queue than he was used to, and here and there newcomers were squeezing themselves in between other waiting people, claiming they had been here before. This soon led to raised voices and arguments until the uniformed employees interfered and ushered the most obvious queue-jumpers back. Right in front of Harry - who was watching the hubbub with growing fascination - a petite young woman was shooting a man twice her size who tried to squeeze himself into the line a glare of Snapeesque proportions until he backed off. When she turned around to make sure that the offender was actually returning to the end of the queue, Harry involuntarily took a step back – and bumped into someone who was standing right behind him.

 

"I'm sor-" Harry never got to finish the apology because he had turned his head to see the person onto whose toes he had stepped.

 

Draco Malfoy sighed. "There's just no getting rid of you, Potter, is there?"

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

"So this is where you disappeared to." Harry tried to speak as impassively as possible; Malfoy's expression was carefully casual, and there was no telling what he might be thinking.

 

Malfoy shrugged. "It isn't where I went when I left, but it's where I eventually decided to stay, yes."

 

"You're actually living here?" Harry realised a moment too late what a stupid question it had been.

 

"Well, I've got a job here, haven't I?"

 

"So I noticed," Harry answered dryly. He wasn't going to admit that he was rather curious now – over the years, he had wondered occasionally what had become of his former arch-enemy who had so spectacularly faltered on the last step of his way into the darkness before Harry's very eyes. Snape had never breathed a word about Malfoy's whereabouts, and to the best of Harry's knowledge, no one else had ever heard from him again. Until now.

 

Malfoy smirked. "From the look on your face when you recognised me, I take it you didn't come here because of me." His tone was casual, but there was a hint of anxiety underneath, as if he wanted to reassure himself that Harry's sudden appearance meant no danger.

 

Remembering belatedly that they were surrounded by a crowd of Muggles, Harry raised his hand and cast a quiet Silencing Spell. The sound of chatting voices lowered, but it didn't disappear completely. Harry frowned – he wasn't very skilled in wandless magic, but he usually didn't have problems with minor spells. He tried again with a bit more force, and this time the crowd fell silent. Malfoy, his expression still carefully guarded, had watched with narrowed eyes. Harry half expected a snide remark about his charm work, but none came.

 

"No, I'm not here because of you. If you absolutely have to know, I'm on holiday in Vienna."

 

"All by yourself?"

 

"What does it matter to you? Afraid I might call for reinforcements?"

 

"I am most definitely not afraid of you, Potter," Malfoy replied in a tone that brought back reminiscences of the boy he had been a decade ago, "and given the problems you seem to be having with third-year incantations, I doubt you'd pose much of a threat anyway. I was just wondering because Vienna seems a rather strange choice of destination for you."

 

"And why is that?" Harry tried very hard not to bristle; he didn't want to give Malfoy a clue that he might be on to something.

 

"Because, Potter, Vienna surprisingly lacks two things which one would expect in a city of its size, and these are a Hard Rock Cafe and a wizarding community. Didn't you know?"

 

Harry shrugged. "I had no idea about the Hard Rock Cafe, no."

 

"I see. So you are here all by your lonesome in the only major city of Europe where the hero of the wizarding world would not be recognised. Or," he added with another smirk, "that's what you thought."

 

"I'd have thought it would be _your_ reason for being here."

 

"It is, actually. But that's rather different – I'm an outcast, and even if your lovely Ministry granted an amnesty for all "minor crimes" committed during the war, I rather doubt that any magical community would welcome me with open arms."

 

Harry gritted his teeth. "Trying to kill Dumbledore and letting the Death Eaters into Hogwarts are hardly minor crimes!"

 

"The Ministry seems to think so, however, because I have been informed that I could legally return to Britain now."

 

Harry didn't need to ask who had informed him. "Then why didn't you?"

 

Malfoy gave a derisive snort. "I've heard what happened to those who took the Ministry's pardon. Their magic restricted, their every move monitored, shunned to the point where they can hardly make a living. You seriously expect me to go back to _that_? Besides, the world I grew up in doesn't exist any more; your side has seen to it. There's nothing for me to go back to."

 

There was surprisingly little emotion in this statement; he seemed to have come to terms with the fate of permanent exile long ago. Harry's astonishment must have shown on his face, because Malfoy gave him a lopsided smile. "I'm still a Malfoy, Potter. We're nothing if not adaptable."

 

"So it seems. I would honestly have expected you to hex me into oblivion the moment you saw me again."

 

"That would have been pretty stupid of me, wouldn't it? Do you really think I'd risk the life I've managed to build for myself over an old schoolboy grudge?"

 

"Well, I almost killed you during your last year in Hogwarts."

 

"And I almost killed Dumbledore. If I remember correctly, you didn't hex me on sight, either. I'm certainly not complaining, but I was a little surprised."

 

It was Harry's turn to shrug now. "It wouldn't have changed anything that happened then if I had."

 

"Nothing we do changes the past, Potter; only the future. I'm glad to see that I'm not the only one who has realised that. Though your future isn't going exactly as you expected it to be, is it?"

 

Harry frowned. "Whatever gives you that idea, Malfoy?"

 

"As I said, the Boy Who's Fawned Over on holiday all alone in a city without wizards makes me wonder."

 

"Well, keep wondering, because I'm certainly not going to tell you anything that's not your business. I didn't come here to chat with you, but to see an opera."

 

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "Too bad you've come on the wrong day, then."

 

"Oh, and why is that?" The smug grin on Malfoy's face did nothing for Harry's temper.

 

"Because, Potter, it's a ballet they're showing tonight, not an opera. Didn't you even look at the play-bill outside before you came here?"

 

Feeling extremely stupid, Harry forced himself to seem unperturbed. "Well, I've never seen a ballet either, so it doesn't matter." This wasn't exactly true – the word "ballet" made him think of starving girls in tutus, which was not an appealing prospect – but he'd rather die than give Malfoy the satisfaction of leaving now.

 

"Well, enjoy it, then. _Finite incantatem_." With a wave of Malfoy's hand, the noise of the crowd washed over them again; Harry took it as a sign that their conversation was finished and turned his back on Malfoy. He didn't want to give the impression he'd let himself be dismissed – even though he had to admit that he had.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

After overcoming the initial shock caused by the garish décor of the opera's interior (a nightmare in gold, stucco and scarlet plush), Harry was pleasantly surprised to find out that he liked the performance after all. There was a refreshing lack of skinny girls – actually, there weren't many girls at all – and absolutely no tutus, which seemed quite logical once he had figured out that the ballet's topic was the uprising of Spartacus. It probably explained the predominance of leather costumes, too.

 

The standing room was packed and stuffy, but Harry was rather enjoying himself in spite of the uncomfortable surroundings and the growing soreness in his feet. He would probably have been enjoying himself even more if it hadn't been for the annoying presence of the back of Malfoy's head which partially blocked his view of the stage – somehow, the bastard had managed to squeeze himself into the row in front of Harry even though he had been standing in line right behind him. Some things obviously never changed.

 

Harry lost sight of Malfoy after the end of the performance when he was trying to make his way out among the crowd that was buzzing with chatter in twenty different languages. He wasn't overly fond of this kind of milling among hundreds of people, and when he finally stepped through the main exit, his head was spinning from the noise and the stifling heat of the crowded corridors.

 

Leaning against the wall, Harry closed his eyes and took a deep, relieved breath of the balmy night air. His relief didn't last long, though, because a voice spoke up right next to him.

 

"Cultural shock got too much for you, Potter?"

 

Harry didn't open his eyes. "Don't you have anything better to do than stalking me, Malfoy?"

 

"Me stalking you?" Malfoy sounded genuinely amused. "Isn't that a bit rich, coming from someone who monitored my every move back in sixth year?"

 

Harry's eyes snapped open. "You noticed that?"

 

"Of course I noticed, Potter. You're as subtle as an attacking hippogriff, after all. Which you proved again today by almost fainting on the spot when you recognised me."

 

Harry gave him a cool look. "Can you blame me? I hadn't expected to ever meet you again; most people back home think you're dead."

 

Malfoy shrugged. "Sorry to disappoint you, then."

 

"I never said I wished you dead, Malfoy."

 

"Didn't you?" Malfoy didn't seem amused any longer; quizzical, rather.

 

It was Harry's turn to shrug now. "I guess there has been too much death already."

 

Malfoy seemed about to answer, but at that moment, a young Asian woman passed them by, waved at Malfoy and said something in German to which he replied with a grin. Harry stared at him; he hadn't understood a word she had said, but he'd clearly heard how she'd addressed him.

 

"You're going by your _real_ name here?"

 

"There's no need to sound so surprised, Potter. I may be surrounded by Muggles, but I'm still who I am."

 

"Is that why you're living in a place without wizards? Just so you could keep your _name_?"

 

Malfoy seemed very serious all of a sudden. "That's quite a reason when your name is all you have left, Potter."

 

Harry shook his head incredulously. "Then why did you bother to change your hair colour?"

 

Now Malfoy was smirking once more. "Feeling less unique?"

 

"Malfoy, there are billions of people with black hair", Harry answered reasonably, "I just never expected you to become one of them."

 

"Well, I admit it wasn't my idea in the first place. My mother changed it when we fled from Britain; she thought I would be less conspicuous that way."

 

Harry grinned. "I don't want to imagine the tantrum you must have thrown."

 

"Yes, because I certainly didn't have bigger things to worry about at the time." The all too familiar sneer was back on Malfoy's face.

 

"Right." Harry fought the impulse to add _I'm sorry_; this may have been the longest civil conversation they had ever had, but it was still _Draco Malfoy_, after all. Besides, the conversation seemed to be over anyway because Malfoy was turning to leave.

 

"Well, Potter, pleasurable as this unexpected reunion has been, I'll be on my way. I don't suppose you'll be turning up for another of my tours?"

 

"No need to worry, Malfoy." Harry did his best to sound equally sarcastic. "I'm afraid I found that tourist groups are not my thing, so unless you're doing private tours as well, you're quite safe from me."

 

A slow, almost predatory grin spread over Malfoy's face. "Actually, I do them occasionally - but since I doubt you'll be able to afford me, I guess I'm still safe."

 

It was, Harry realised a second too late, the oldest trap in the world – and of course, he had walked straight into it. "Oh, really? Tell me, Malfoy, how much does one pay for the dubious pleasure of your undivided attention?"

 

"The usual rate is three hundred Euros for half a day, five hundred for a whole day", Malfoy replied, suddenly all business. "For tours in Vienna, that is. Entrance fees not included."

 

Harry took a deep breath. He was _so_ going to regret this, but he'd be damned if he didn't accept the challenge now. "Very well, then. Is there still room in your busy schedule during the next days?"

 

Malfoy was grinning again. "I was planning to take the day off tomorrow since I'll be working seven days in a row afterwards, but never let it be said that I'm turning down an offer from the hero of the wizarding world. I'll be asking for payment in advance, though, in case you decide to reconsider."

 

"Oh, and what guarantee do I have that you'll turn up tomorrow if you get paid now?"

 

Malfoy sighed. "Potter, as you should have realised earlier today, I'm a professional tour guide. Here's my business card, if it makes you feel better. Do you really think I'd risk my reputation in such a stupid way? If you're looking for an excuse to chicken out, I suggest you find another one."

 

Gritting his teeth, Harry pulled his wallet out of his pocket. He was secretly glad he hadn't had a chance yet to spend much of the money he'd changed, and therefore actually had five hundred Euros cash on him. Handing them over to Malfoy, he said as nonchalantly as possible: "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

 

Malfoy nodded briskly. "Do you need a receipt?"

 

"Uh, no, I don't think so. Why?"

 

"Because", Malfoy replied with a smirk while he put the money away, "in that case, Karl-Heinz is never going to hear about it."

 

"Who?"

"The Minister of Finance."

 

It took Harry a moment to get the message. "Tax evasion, Malfoy?"

 

Malfoy, completely unfazed, grinned. "One of the big benefits of being a freelancer. Besides, it's practically a national hobby here. Although if I had asked an Austrian the same question, he would have demanded a discount in return."

 

"And you'd have given him one?"

 

Malfoy smirked again. "Most likely. That's why I prefer doing business with innocent foreigners like you, Potter. Where are you staying?"

 

Harry frowned. "Why do you want to know?"

 

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "So I can murder you in your bed tonight. Potter, I'll have to meet you somewhere tomorrow, won't I? Usually people appreciate being picked up right at their hotel, but if you are afraid to give me your address..."

 

Harry sighed. "Malfoy, we're both too old for these games. I'm staying at the Ibis Hotel, all right?"

 

"The one near Westbahnhof?"

 

"That's it. Can you be there at half past eight?"

 

Malfoy gave him a sardonic smile. "Count on it, Potter."

 


	3. June 17th, 2005

** _June 17th, 2005_ **

 

 

Harry was feeling rather cranky when he stepped out of the lift in the hotel lobby the next morning. He hadn't slept well; he'd woken up a few times from strange dreams he couldn't remember once he was awake. This wouldn't have bothered him a few years ago, but it hadn't happened for quite some time now, and he was a bit worried about the relapse.

 

Still, if the state of his pyjamas in the morning had been any indication, it just might have been the fact that he'd enjoyed last night's ballet quite a bit more than he'd realised at the time. Which was just as well, given that he probably wasn't in for much enjoyment during the day ahead of him.

 

It was only twenty minutes past eight, but Malfoy was already waiting for him in the lobby. He was wearing black jeans and a green t-shirt and had a backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder; today his hair wasn't tied in a ponytail, but held back by his sunglasses which he wore like an Alice band.

 

Harry rolled his eyes and wondered if the poncy git had a second pair of sunglasses in his backpack – in case he actually wanted to use them for their intended purpose.

 

"You're early, Malfoy."

 

"Good morning to you too, Potter." Malfoy's smile was so perfectly polite it was downright infuriating. "Decided what you want to do today?"

 

"If I knew what I wanted to do here, I wouldn't need you to show me around, would I?"

 

Malfoy sighed. "I see. I suppose it's the standard 'squeeze all of Vienna's tourist hot spots into one day' tour, then?"

 

"You don't seem thrilled about that."

 

"You can hardly expect me to be. I could do that one blindfolded by now, and it was already boring the first time."

 

Harry was about to say something along the lines of 'tough luck', but then he hesitated; he'd just had a strange idea. "Then why don't you show me the places _you_ like to go to?"

 

Malfoy frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

 

"Your favourite places, Malfoy. I'm sure you have some."

 

"You really want to see _my_ favourite places in Vienna?" Malfoy still seemed uncertain whether Harry was serious.

 

Harry shrugged. "You know this place well, so I guess the things you like should be the really good ones."

 

Malfoy cocked his head. "You're full of surprises, Potter."

 

"You'll do it, then?"

 

"Of course I will. Professional, remember? Come on, we've got a tram to catch."

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

While the Vienna underground system was fairly easy to manage, Harry had known better than to try his luck with the complicated system of tram routes that criss-crossed the city. Now he felt a bit like a child looking forward to its very first train ride when he got into the old-fashioned, red and white car at the tram stop right opposite the hotel.

 

Malfoy pushed him into one of the wooden seats and sat down next to him. "Never taken a tram before in your life, have you?"

 

Harry just shook his head. Malfoy grinned. "You're lucky that this is one of the old ones. They're a bit grimy, but I prefer them to the modern cars they've started using. Those are terribly uncomfortable, and since they're a lot lower, you don't see a damn thing. With the old ones, you've got a nice view right over the rest over the traffic."

 

"Why did they change them?"

 

"Wait until you see a woman trying to get into this car with a pram, and you won't ask again."

 

Harry turned to look out of the window. This clearly wasn't one of Vienna's touristy districts, probably not even one of the better living quarters. There were mostly huge apartment blocks, although the green of a row of trees between the pavement and the street softened the dull colours of the buildings. "I suppose not many tourists get to see this part of the city?"

 

"Only when they're passing through it. We're moving along one of the main traffic routes right now; we'll be going through a few different districts that are mostly living quarters for those who can't afford a flat in a greener or quieter neighbourhood."

 

"Doesn't sound too inviting." Harry had never developed a taste for living in the city; he was forever thankful that he could Apparate to work and didn't have to stay in the vicinity of Auror Headquarters.

 

Malfoy shrugged. "I lived ten minutes away from here for a while, and it wasn't so bad – it was loud, but one gets used to it."

 

Harry still had a hard time imagining Draco Malfoy living in a Muggle neighbourhood, let alone in one of the poorer districts of an unfamiliar city. There were a lot of questions he'd have loved to ask, but since the only answer he was likely to get was a 'mind your own business, Potter', he stayed silent.

 

It was quite a long ride, and the scenery remained bleak; Harry was beginning to wonder where exactly they were going. They got off the tram in front of a huge, incredibly ugly building that looked like a train station. It was right next to a very busy street; the roar of the traffic was so loud that Harry had to shout at Malfoy to make himself heard over the noise. "Don't tell me _this_ is one of your favourite places?"

 

Malfoy merely smiled. "Turn around, Potter."

 

Harry did.

 

Right across the street, a huge park with carefully trimmed bushes and colourful flower beds was separated from the traffic by an elaborate wrought iron fence. Behind the fence, the outline of a palace, built from some kind of greyish-white stone, was visible in the distance.

 

Malfoy's smile widened. "Close you mouth, Potter, and come on."

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

The Belvedere Palace was unlike any castle Harry had ever seen before, all flowing curves and rounded ornaments that almost looked as if they were moving. The effect was heightened by the huge, artificial pond that mirrored the facade of the castle in front of it. Harry stopped for a moment on the white gravel path that led towards the palace to enjoy the view. "Wow. I can see why this would be one of your favourites, Malfoy."

 

Malfoy shrugged. "Actually, it looks better from the other side. Over here..."

 

As it turned out, the other side of the palace faced another, much bigger park, filled with statues and flowers which were planted to form intricate patterns. It sloped gently downhill where, quite far in the distance, another, matching palace came into view.

 

"That's the Lower Belvedere," Malfoy said, smoothly slipping into what Harry recognised as his professional voice from the day before. "It was built for living there, while the Upper Palace war merely for representation and society events."

 

Harry looked around, trying to wrap his mind about the concept of building an entire palace just for partying. "Who built this? The emperor?"

 

Malfoy shook his head. "Prince Eugene of Savoy. Famous Austrian military leader in the early eighteenth century. This was his summer palace, built well outside Vienna in the countryside; the city has grown around it since then."

 

"He could afford a place like _this_ for a summer residence?"

 

"Oh yes. He pretty much saved the emperor's arse in the wars against the Ottoman empire..."

 

"Against who?"

 

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "The Turks, Potter. Heard of _them_? Fine. He was French by origin and wanted into the French army, but the French king wouldn't have him because he seemed too short and too frail for a soldier. So he fought for the emperor and became famous and rich by doing so. Quite an interesting personality, too."

 

"How so?" Harry looked around again. "Apart from building things like this, I mean."

 

"Well, he was very much into the arts, as you can see, and spent a lot of money on them. He was also quite openly gay, which was rather unusual at the time – people did whatever they pleased behind closed doors, but they were careful to keep up public appearances and made sure to marry and produce heirs regardless of their preferences. He felt he was famous enough not to give a damn about appearances – never married, spent his money on art and lovers, threw huge parties, did drugs and was still everybody's darling."

 

"Impressive." Harry was careful to keep his tone neutral, but Malfoy gave him a quizzical look nevertheless.

 

"Jealous, Potter?"

 

Harry froze. "What are you talking about?"

 

"You don't seem too pleased about the idea that someone could get away with anything and _still_ be a hero."

 

"Malfoy, I'm paying you to be my tour guide, not my therapist."

 

"Thank God." Malfoy nodded briskly, which made his sunglasses slip down to his nose – a casual movement that he'd probably practised for hours in front of a mirror. "I very much doubt I'd be done with you in a day if I were."

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

Half an hour later, Malfoy ushered Harry onto another tram that would take them into the inner city. Despite the uncomfortable start, Harry had to admit to himself that he'd rather enjoyed the tour of the Belvedere gardens. Malfoy had gone back to behaving like a proper tour guide after that one jibe at the beginning, and as long as he was talking about nothing but art and history, he wasn't making a bad job of it. The day before, Harry had been too distracted by meeting his former arch-rival again to listen to anything he had said during the tour, but now it seemed to him that Malfoy was actually quite good at what he was doing. It seemed strange somehow, Draco Malfoy being good at a _Muggle_ job.

 

"Where are we going now?"

 

"The Imperial Palace in the first district; I'm taking you to the National Library and to the Capuchin Vault."

 

A library didn't seem that much of a sight to Harry – he'd spent more time than he ever wanted to over dusty books during his school days. Still, Malfoy's first choice of destination had been well worth seeing, so perhaps this one would be interesting, too. Somehow, Harry doubted that Malfoy would turn out to be like Hermione, who considered all libraries incredibly fascinating by default.

 

"What kind of vault is that?"

 

Malfoy shook his head. "Potter, did you actually open that guidebook you were carrying around yesterday? Let me guess, Granger forced it on you, and you didn't have the balls to tell her to bugger off."

 

"Are you this insolent to all your customers?" Harry fought very hard to keep the irritation out of his voice; even after all those years, Malfoy still hadn't lost his knack for getting under Harry's skin.

 

"No, this is my special VIP treatment, so consider yourself lucky." Malfoy pushed his sunglasses up his forehead again and tucked his hair back behind his ears. "But to answer your question, the Capuchin Vault is the tomb of the Habsburg family – the place where most of the monarchs and their family members were buried since the sixteenth century. It's considered one of the most popular sights in Vienna, so you'll have to forgive me for presuming that you had heard of it."

 

Harry frowned. "What is it with this place and cemeteries? I never thought that graveyards could be tourist hot spots!"

 

Malfoy actually grinned at this. "This city has a morbid streak a mile wide. I don't think I've ever been to a place where people were more obsessed with death. Already been to a crypt or something?"

 

"St Michael's."

 

Malfoy gave him a sidelong glance. "I _see_."

 

Harry, uncomfortably remembering the faint tingling of dead magic under his palms, decided not to pursue the topic.

 

They got off the tram right outside the huge complex that was the Imperial Palace; it was easy to realise they were back in the heart of the touristy part of the city. Malfoy led Harry across the huge square in front of the palace; then they had to make their way through several courtyards that were packed with people who stood in each other's way while they were busy looking at the buildings, going through their guidebooks or taking pictures. Harassed-looking guides were ushering groups of tourists through the crowd; a few of them waved at Malfoy as he passed them by with Harry in tow.

 

Malfoy, waving back left and right, was grinning again. "It looks like my colleagues are envying me because I've just got you to shepherd, Potter."

 

"I wouldn't blame them." It was hard enough for the two of them to navigate their way through the crowd without losing sight of each other; Harry couldn't even imagine how one would keep a huge group of people together in these surroundings.

 

"Neither would I; this is what a tour guide's nightmare looks like. After a few hours, you're usually itching to strangle someone with your bare hands."

 

"Strangling? How very Muggle of you, Malfoy." Harry couldn't help the jibe; he reckoned Malfoy deserved it after all those snide comments Harry had already had to endure.

 

"Yes, I seem to recall that lethal hexes were more _your_ style," Malfoy replied placidly.

 

Harry stopped dead in his tracks, feeling as if he'd been slapped around the face. The image of a younger Draco Malfoy, his hair still blond and his face ashen, on the bathroom floor in a pool of his own blood was flashing through his mind, as vivid as if it had happened only yesterday, and for a moment, Harry was afraid he was going to be sick.

 

Malfoy walked on, seemingly oblivious to the effect of his remark. After a few seconds, Harry pulled himself together and hurried to catch up, scolding himself for overreacting so stupidly. He'd done worse on countless occasions during the war and had learned to live with it; there really was no reason to let the memory of this particular event get to him like this.

 

The obnoxious git had probably just brought it up to get rid of him ahead of schedule. In that case, Harry thought with grim determination, he'd have to try _a lot_ harder.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

The main hall of the National Library made Harry regret that he'd rejected Colin Creevey's offer to lend him one of his cameras for the trip. The huge, cavernous room was an explosion of light and colours, from the marble floor to the frescoed dome of the ceiling; thousands and thousands of books on the ornate shelves that were lining the walls filled the air with the strong, heady smell of leather and old paper. If it hadn't been for those bookshelves, Harry would have felt as if he were in a church rather than in a library; although this hall was clearly just for exhibition and not for actual reading, people were talking in hushed tones and moving as quietly as they could as they walked around between the showcases where all kinds of precious books were on display. The effect of the whole ensemble was almost overwhelming; Harry couldn't help imagining how Hermione would freak out at the sight of this place.

 

He'd been staring at the paintings on the ceiling for so long now that his neck was starting to hurt. When he finally lowered his head, he noticed that Malfoy had wandered off; Harry found him perched over a display case where he seemed to admire a manuscript that didn't strike Harry as particularly impressive.

 

"What's so interesting about this that it makes you press your nose against the glass?"

 

"Hm?" Malfoy seemed almost startled by the fact that Harry was beside him. "I was just trying to see whether I could still read it. It's been a few years since I've last tried it."

 

Harry squinted at the spidery writing on the pages. "You can actually read that?"

 

"More or less. I took a few classes on palaeography when I started studying, but I'm a bit out of practice by now."

 

"Studying? You went to school here?"

 

Malfoy sighed. "You know, Potter, for someone who allegedly grew up in the Muggle world, you're surprisingly clueless about it. Do you really think that six years of Hogwarts education would have enabled me to work in a Muggle profession?" He didn't wait for an answer, but glanced at his watch. "We'd better be going, it's already past eleven, and the Capuchin Vault tends to fill up rather quickly past noon."

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

There was a small crowd gathered at the entrance of the Vault when Harry and Malfoy arrived there. Malfoy surveyed it with a practised eye. "Not too bad for a Friday. Potter, you wait here, I'll go and get the tickets."

 

Once he was alone, Harry noticed that somebody else was speaking in English nearby. He looked around; a bit to the side of the entrance, there was a small group of youngsters who somehow broadcast the fact that they were American although neither of them was saying anything. The speaking was done by a woman who seemed to be in charge of the group and was explaining something about Habsburg burial customs. None of the youngsters looked particularly thrilled, but Harry decided it was more interesting than just standing around and sidled over to listen.

 

After a while, the woman gave a little wave into his direction; only now, Harry noticed that Malfoy had returned and was standing beside him. Malfoy waved back; once she was done with her explanations, he walked over to her with Harry trailing after him.

 

"Doing my work for me, are you?"

 

The woman smiled. "No thanks, I've got my own charges to look after. Besides, you know I have no patience with tourists."

 

"Says the lady who's here with a bunch of _students_."

 

She gave him an impish grin. "Yes, but I can tell _them_ to shut the hell up when they're bothering me. See you!"

 

"Another colleague of yours?" Harry asked when the woman had ushered the youngsters through the entrance.

 

Malfoy shook his head. "Former instructor. She's teaching in the training program for tour guide hopefuls."

 

"I didn't realise there was an official training for it."

 

Malfoy tapped the little red and white badge he was wearing on his t-shirt. "You have no idea, Potter. Didn't you notice this?"

 

Actually, Harry had already noticed the badge - reading _Austria Guide_ and another line in German - the day before, but he hadn't really given it any thought. "Okay, I'm noticing it now. What's up with it?"

 

"It proves that I took the state exam to become a certified tour guide. It's a big deal in front of a committee of officials from the Chamber of Commerce; there are a couple of theoretical exams in history, art history, geography, legal matters and so on, then there's the practical where they drag you to some random sight in Vienna and tell you do an impromptu tour of the place in at least two different languages. Before you can even take the exam, you need two years of training, and that's no walk in the park either."

 

Harry reminded himself that this was still Draco Malfoy and most of the things he'd just told him were likely exaggerated. "And you need all that just to do guided tours?"

 

Malfoy graciously ignored the implications of the word 'just'. "Legally, yes. There are travel agencies that hire uncertified guides because they're cheaper, but the Chamber is after them like Filch was after curfew trespassers. If I wandered around with a group of tourists without wearing the badge, you can be sure the first certified guide who spotted me would be filing a complaint before I was done collecting the tips."

 

"Would you, if you saw one?"

 

"In a heartbeat." For a moment, Harry got a glimpse of the old Malfoy sneer. "Don't give me that look, Mr Rules Happen To Other People. It's my job or theirs – not a hard choice if you have to make a living."

 

"Especially since you didn't have a problem with reporting someone to the authorities even before you had to make a living."

 

"And you gave me plenty of opportunities, didn't you? Ah, those were the days..." Malfoy looked almost wistful for a second.

 

"What do you miss most?" Harry had asked without really thinking what he was saying, and there was no way to take it back now.

 

Malfoy stared at him. "You mean apart from my family, my home, my friends, and the world I grew up in?"

 

Harry looked away. "I'm sorry; it was a stupid thing to ask."

 

Malfoy didn't answer. They went down a flight of stairs that led to the entry of the crypt in frosty silence, with Malfoy always remaining half a step ahead of Harry.

 

Only when they had entered the low, vaulted room filled with elaborate coffins, he turned back to face Harry and said briskly, "Flying."

 

Harry blinked. "What?"

 

"The thing I miss most. It's flying. Now do you want that tour of the crypt or not?"

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

Morbid streak or no, Harry thought as he followed Malfoy through the low, gloomy halls of the Capuchin Vault, there was such a thing as taking the celebration of death a bit too far. As they were walking between the coffins of emperors, archdukes and their assorted family members, they were surrounded by bronze skulls and bones of every variety. Some burial places were so heaped with the things that it was hardly possible to make out the shape of the actual coffin underneath. The triumph of death was everywhere, as if the rulers buried here had thought they'd be able to take their glory with them by handing their insignia over to the Grim Reaper. The coffin of one particular emperor, surrounded by whole skeletons dressed in funeral garb and wearing the crowns the man had owned during his lifetime, made Harry's skin crawl.

 

Malfoy had slipped back into professional mode and was ticking off the coffins as they walked by, listing names, dates of birth and death, and achievements - or the lack thereof - of the Habsburgs buried in the Vault with the bored voice of someone who'd repeated the same words a hundred times before. Harry was profusely glad when the tour was finished and they were back on the sunlit street; he'd begun to experience a faint trace of claustrophobia down there.

 

A growl from his stomach reminded him that it was already past noon. Malfoy must have heard it too, because he raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Hungry?"

 

Harry shrugged and tried not to show his embarrassment. "I wouldn't say no to a lunch break. Do you have any recommendations?"

 

"That's my job, isn't it? Besides, you can't do a tour of Vienna without at least one stop at a café. Come on, Potter, I know just the place."

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

Harry gratefully sank into a seat at the small round table; he hadn't really noticed until now how sore his feet were. The _Café Griensteidl_ that Malfoy had taken him to looked nice enough, all dark wood and white marble, with the red plush that seemed a recurring theme in Viennese interior design covering the chairs and benches. The menus were in three languages and the prices rather high, which was only to be expected right in the centre of the inner city, but Harry saw many people in business clothes at nearby tables who clearly were on lunch break from work, so he guessed it couldn't be the worst tourist trap in the book.

 

He let Malfoy order the food, which turned out to be a reddish, rather spicy kind of beef stew that, according to Malfoy, was a popular adaptation of a traditional Hungarian dish – "Viennese cuisine is the result of stealing recipes from all over the Empire for hundreds of years, Potter" – and tasted okay. Harry ate in silence; out of the corner of his eye, he was watching Malfoy, who had his Filofax open next to his plate and seemed busy organizing his timetable.

 

The grumpy waiter had already taken away their empty plates when Malfoy snapped the Filofax shut and looked up.

 

"What are you staring at, Potter?"

 

"I'm trying to figure you out, Malfoy."

 

Malfoy sneered at him; in moments like these he looked exactly like the boy Harry had known and hated back at school, black hair nonwithstanding. "Good luck with that."

 

Harry shrugged and changed tack. "Can I ask you something?"

 

"As I already pointed out, that's what I'm here for, isn't it?"

 

Harry handed him the business card Malfoy had given him the day before.

 

 

_Mag. Draco Malfoy_

_Staatlich geprüfter Fremdenführer / Certified tour guide_

_Tel.: +43/699/9100860_

_d.malfoy@aon.at_

 

 

"Is that an academic degree in front of your name?"

 

"Five points to Gryffindor for stating the obvious. It's short for _Magister_, in my case_ Magister philosophiae_. A Master's degree."

 

"You need a Master's degree to do guided tours?"

 

"No, but it will get you the more interesting tours." Malfoy signalled the waiter. "Coffee, Potter?"

 

"Erm, sure..." Before Harry could say more, Malfoy had placed the order and turned back to him.

 

"I started studying at the university during my second year in the tour guide training programme. Everyone in the business told me that you need extra qualifications if you want to do more than drag Americans and Japanese through Schönbrunn Castle five times a day for the rest of your life. You can make a living like that, but it would have driven me crazy within a few years. On the other hand, if you are able to do themed tours on various topics, you'll get hired for guiding those tourists who are actually interested in the history or the culture of a place and don't just want to take fifty pretty photos between meals. Much more interesting, and it pays better, too."

 

"What did you study?"

 

"Art history, mostly. I wrote my Master's thesis on the representation of death in Austrian baroque art last year."

 

"Ah, so that's where your love for crypts is coming from?"

 

"Partly, yes. Besides, you could say a certain fascination with death runs in the family." He smirked as Harry's face darkened, but didn't pursue the topic. "From your expression down there, I'd say it's not your thing, is it?"

 

Harry shrugged. "If I never see a skull again in my life, it will be too early. Once burned and all that, you know."

 

"You're telling me?" Malfoy's tone was laced with contempt, and Harry couldn't help casting a glance at the smooth, unmarred skin of his bare arms. He'd been certain that Malfoy was marked ever since that day he'd seen him in the shop with Mr Borgin during the holidays before sixth year, but he'd obviously been wrong. Still, Malfoy had his own experiences with the Dark Mark, whether he'd been marked himself or not.

 

Their conversation seemed about to take a very unpleasant turn when the waiter returned, placing a coffee cup, a glass of water and a piece of cake in front of each of them. Harry, rather grateful for the timely interruption, threw Malfoy a quizzical look.

 

"I don't remember ordering this."

 

Malfoy, unfazed, was stirring an indecent amount of sugar into his coffee which was covered by a thick layer of whipped cream. "You'll like it. If there's one thing to be said for the Austrians, it's the fact that they're doing fabulous sweets."

 

"Still, you could have asked. Besides, I prefer my coffee black."

 

"You've never left Britain before, have you? In this case, you don't want to drink your first real coffee black, it'd give you a heart attack and burn a hole into your stomach. Trust me."

 

Harry, forgoing the urge to point out that Malfoy was the last person on the planet he'd trust, nevertheless tried the cake, which seemed to be made of layers of spongy biscuits held together with a rich yellow cream, and had to admit it was fantastic. Still, Malfoy's presumption rankled, so he didn't say anything, not even when he took a sip of coffee and found that even with milk _and_ cream, it was indeed twice as strong as anything he was used to.

 

When he looked up, Malfoy, who had an almost rapt look on his face, was slowly licking a layer of creamy coffee foam off his upper lip. Harry bit the inside of his cheek in annoyance. Whatever had become of him, the git certainly had no business making Harry's stomach flip. He was easy enough on the eyes with his dark hair that made for a striking contrast with his pale skin and eyes, but that didn't mean Harry would ever forget himself to the point where he found anything Draco Malfoy did even remotely attractive.

 

Seizing the chance for a snide remark of his own, Harry pointed at Malfoy's card that was still on the table. "You know, I really wouldn't have thought I'd live to see you having a telephone number, let alone an email address."

 

Malfoy was unfazed. "It's rather hard to communicate without a phone, isn't it? Besides, it's not exactly a huge task to use it, once you've figured out the basics. Although I admit I'm rather surprised _you_ know about email."

 

Harry frowned. "In case you didn't notice, I grew up among Muggles."

 

"And left when you were eleven, didn't you? Hogwarts isn't exactly keen on encouraging the Muggleborns to remain functional in their own world."

 

"That's because 'their world' is the wizarding world, Malfoy!"

 

"Yes, yes, I didn't say anything against that, did I?" Malfoy raised his hands in mock surrender. "Still, after learning a bit about the Muggle world myself, it seems to me that your average Muggleborn would have a hard time returning to it after Hogwarts, don't you think? Have you ever seen Granger use a computer? I bet you haven't, and I suppose that goes for the rest of them, too."

 

Harry frowned. "You don't know that for certain."

 

"Oh, but I think I do." Malfoy's grin was infuriatingly superior, as if he were laughing about a joke that had gone over Harry's head. "The fact that you were so surprised to see me was all the confirmation I needed. Ironic, isn't it? Everyone back in Britain is probably still wondering what became of me when all it would take to find me is a bleeding Google search."

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

"Wow."

 

Harry couldn't help staring. He'd never seen such a huge bell in his life; it made him feel almost tiny by comparison. "That's... impressive."

 

Malfoy smiled. Harry recognised his "professional" smile that seemed to have taken a break during lunch, and to his own surprise, he realised that he felt slightly disappointed. "I told you this was worth seeing, didn't I?"

 

Harry made a face. "I'll never doubt your expertise again, your omniscientness." He'd protested when Malfoy had led him back to St Stephen's, reminding him that he'd already seen it the day before, but Malfoy would hear none of it. Now they were standing at the top of the second, unfinished spire that obviously served no other purpose than to house the _Pummerin_, Austria's biggest church bell.

 

"Careful with the big words before you hurt yourself, Potter."

 

Harry bit back a grin; the real Malfoy was definitely still there under the thin veneer of professional politeness. He was aware that he was beginning to get used to the constant flow of jibes and snide remarks; in a way, they were an almost refreshing change from the behaviour he encountered back home. It had been a long time since any wizard or witch in Britain had dared to say a harsh word to Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived, Chosen One and Hero of the Second War.

 

"So what's up with this bell, other than the fact that it's huge?"

 

"It's something like a national symbol of modern Austria. The original bell had been made from the bronze of Turkish cannons after the Turkish siege of Vienna had been broken in 1683, but it was destroyed during the last days of World War Two when the remainders of the Nazi troops were fighting against the Red Army in the streets of Vienna. The cathedral caught fire then, and the bell fell down inside the spire and shattered. After St Stephen's had been rebuilt, the new _Pummerin_ was cast from the pieces of the old one and brought back to its old place in 1951. It's the most famous church bell in the country and only used on special occasions. Most important, every new year begins with the _Pummerin _tolling, which is broadcast both on radio and TV. You could say it has become a symbol for a new beginning."

 

A new beginning. Harry looked up at the looming bulk of the bell, lost in thought. The fact that this was one of Malfoy's favourite places in the whole city seemed rather significant, given that Malfoy had managed to rebuild his life from the debris of the old one here. Once more, Harry tried in vain to imagine how the spoilt, bratty child he'd known back home had coped in a society that he neither knew nor understood, and a country whose language he probably didn't speak then, surrounded by people he'd considered both inferior and dangerous his whole life.

 

"So it's only used once a year?"

 

"Unless something important happens. Of course, what with the pope dying and a new one being elected, we already got to hear it a few times this year." Malfoy grinned. "I was on a tour with a group of Italians in the first district, and I didn't even notice at first that the bells were ringing at the wrong time of day, when suddenly one of the tourists yelled _'Habemus papam!'_ and everyone freaked out. Took me a moment to get what the big deal was."

 

Harry tried to remember if he'd heard anything about a new pope being elected lately and drew a blank. Well, it wasn't as if it was a matter of much importance in Britain anyway. "Most Austrians are catholic, aren't they?"

 

"Yes, but most Austrians also don't give a damn about the church. Those Italians, however, seemed to take the matter rather seriously. A few of them actually _hugged_ me, which thankfully isn't something that happens every day."

 

Now it was Harry's turn to grin. "Doesn't it? Yesterday, a few people in our group seemed rather taken with you. That old American woman all but pinched your cheek!"

 

Malfoy shrugged. "You get pinched in worse places in my line of work, Potter."

 

Harry did his best not to laugh. "How do you manage not to throw hexes?"

 

Malfoy gave him a shrewd look. "Who says I don't? There's more inconspicuous stuff than Jelly Legs and Bat Bogey, you know."

 

His deadpan expression didn't give any indication whether he was joking or not.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

Back in the street, Malfoy checked his watch. "Three o'clock. We've got plenty of time, the Treasury is open until six, and that's the last thing I've planned for today. I don't know about you, Potter, but I'm dying for an ice cream."

 

Harry, who had still been pondering Malfoy's remark about hexing Muggles, was quite thankful for the distraction. "Let me guess: your favourite ice cream parlour is right around the corner."

 

"Almost, yes. It's the best in Vienna – believe me, you don't want to miss this."

 

"If you say so. But cake for lunch and ice cream in the afternoon? You'll go out of shape rather quickly if you keep it up, Malfoy."

 

Malfoy winked at him. "Was that a left-handed compliment about the shape I'm in right now?"

 

Harry snorted. "You wish."

 

"Now where have I heard that before? Oh, never mind, here we are. Any preferred flavours?"

 

Harry shook his head. "Whatever you're having."

 

Malfoy dove into the crowd that was clustered around a tiny shop in a street corner; whether the ice cream they sold here was any good or not, Harry reckoned, it was clearly popular. Malfoy was back surprisingly fast (people here really didn't seem to think twice about queue-jumping) with two dripping cones and pressed one into Harry's hand.

 

Harry eyed it critically. "What did you get?"

 

"Chocolate, pistachio, and strawberry. I'd start eating if I were you, this stuff is melting rather fast."

 

Harry tried his ice cream and found it was indeed quite good, although it was rather difficult not to dribble it all over himself while walking. He polished off the top layer as quickly as possible and then looked over to see how Malfoy was managing. This, however, turned out to be a mistake.

 

Malfoy's way of eating ice cream, Harry realised with a strange twisting feeling in his gut, would have made any porn star green with envy. Technically, he wasn't doing it differently than anybody else, alternating between licking around the rim of the cone and sucking off bits from the top, but somehow, he managed to make the whole procedure look incredibly... dirty. The blissful expression on his face didn't help matters, either – Harry had seen people on the brink of orgasm who seemed to enjoy themselves far less than Malfoy at the moment.

 

Then Malfoy turned his head and saw Harry staring. "What?"

 

Harry fervently hoped he wasn't blushing. "You're _really_ enjoying your ice cream, aren't you?"

 

Malfoy, completely unfazed, carefully licked a smear of pink off his finger. Harry started to sweat. "I'm not making you uncomfortable, am I? Ali keeps complaining that my way of eating ice cream borders on public indecency."

 

Harry, desperate to change the topic, seized the occasion. "Who's Ali?"

 

"Ex-girlfriend." Malfoy had finished the strawberry layer and was now attacking the pistachio. "The 'ex' part doesn't keep her from nagging me, though."

 

"I didn't think Ali was a girl's name."

 

"It isn't, but she says it's the best you can do if your parents saddled you with Alienor-Isabel."

 

Harry almost choked on his ice cream. "That's a rather... unfortunate choice of name."

 

"You bet – especially since no one in their right mind would name a girl either Alienor _or_ Isabel around here."

 

Still, Harry was quite grateful for the unknown lady's naming problem since it had got him over what might have become a rather embarrassing moment otherwise.

 

"Where are we going now?"

 

"Back to the Imperial Castle. The Treasury is in the inner courtyard that we crossed in the morning, and by now, it shouldn't be quite so crowded any more." He gave Harry a rather malicious grin. "Few tourists last into the late afternoon – but _they_ aren't heroes, are they?"

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

The only appropriate word for describing the Imperial Treasury was "overwhelming". Harry felt his eyes grow huge at the sight of room after room full of gold, jewels and precious garments in every possible shape and colour. They walked past crowns, gem-studded swords, coronation robes, crosses and other religious items made of marble, rock crystal, ebony and ivory, and huge portraits of sour-looking rulers who seemed close to collapsing under the weight of the regalia they wore. At first, he tried to take a closer look at each individual item, but after a while, everything started to blend together into one huge, glittering mass of priceless trinkets that would have put a dragon's hoard to shame.

 

Malfoy just went for a couple of particular pieces; he gave Harry time enough to look at everything else, but he only pointed out a few selected items, giving a detailed explanation about their background and the reason they were special. It was, Harry had to admit, definitely the best way to visit the Treasury unless you wanted your head to start spinning.

 

There were only a few artefacts which he probably would remember afterwards: a picture of St Mary in the most brilliant colours he'd ever seen, made entirely from the feathers of humming birds; an emerald the size of his fist that had been hollowed out to form a little container with the part that had been cut out becoming the lid; the coronation mantle of the Holy Roman Empire, almost a thousand years old, with its strange embroidery that depicted camels and lions. Malfoy actually admitted that he rather liked the mantle, too – in spite of the fact that it was red and gold all over.

 

Still, Harry wasn't entirely sure why Malfoy had decided to take him here; so far, none of the items on display seemed to be the reason he counted this place among his favourites. It wasn't until they found themselves in a rather unspectacular corner that Malfoy waved his hand in the direction of the other visitors around them, who promptly began to wander off.

 

Harry frowned. "What was that you cast?"

 

"Muggle-repellent hex," Malfoy replied, "I rather wouldn't risk a Muggle overhearing what I'm about to tell you."

 

Harry gave him an incredulous look. "Isn't that a dark spell?"

 

Malfoy shrugged. "It may well be, I can't say I care. It isn't as if this place had any wizarding authorities that could come after me for hexing Muggles. Besides, I didn't do anything to them other than send them away, did I?"

 

"That's not the point!" Actually, Harry wasn't sure himself why he made such a fuss since there really hadn't been any harm done. In fact, he was rather impressed with Malfoy's casual display of magical ability; it was fiendishly difficult to cast wandless hexes at the best of times, and to do it here, in this place that seemed to drain most of the force out of every spell, was a sure sign of someone who not only knew very well what he was doing, but also had an unusual amount of raw magical power at his disposal. He'd never considered Malfoy a particularly powerful wizard before, and the realisation that he'd underestimated the git irked him a bit.

 

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Potter, you can drop the act, there's no one around who expects you to be the embodiment of wizarding virtue. Look over there, this is the reason I took you to this place."

 

Harry looked in the direction Malfoy had indicated and did a double-take. Set into the ground like a maypole and reaching up to the ceiling of the room was a huge, straight horn, as thick as his arm. "Don't tell me that's –"

 

"Any Muggle guide worth his salt," Malfoy interrupted him, "will tell you that this horn, once considered the most precious treasure of the House of Habsburg, was believed to be the horn of a unicorn in the dark and superstitious centuries past. Today, of course, it's widely known that it's actually the tusk of a narwhal, a sea creature with a single huge tusk on its head. When the whales died, their tusks were sometimes found on beaches, and the people had no other explanation for them than the myth about unicorns."

 

Harry took a step closer. "So this actually isn't the horn of a unicorn?"

 

Malfoy merely smiled. "Why don't you find out for yourself?"

 

Harry cautiously stretched out his hand, fingers spread wide, and closed his eyes. The tingling was barely perceptible, but it was there – dead magic again, this time the lingering remains of a magical creature that must have died centuries ago.

 

"This _is_ the horn of a unicorn."

 

"Ironic, isn't it? The one time Muggles get it right, they're being laughed at by their descendants."

 

Harry shook his head in amazement. "They're incredibly rare, aren't they? Other than on a living unicorn, I've never seen a whole one, just tiny pieces."

 

Malfoy nodded. "Worth a fortune as a potion ingredient, too. Actually, that was the reason Muggles treasured these horns so much: they were believed to protect the owner against poison. I suppose this is a remnant of the contacts with the Muggle world that existed before the Statute of Secrecy, because unicorn horn is a key ingredient in many antidotes."

 

"Forever the number one Potions student, are you?"

 

"Yes, and a fat load of good it's doing me." Malfoy grimaced slightly. "Although you can achieve quite impressive results with Muggle ingredients. I've come up with a rather effective Hangover Potion, for example."

 

"Need it often?"

 

"This is a wine-growing country, Potter; it comes in handy occasionally."

 

"Hm." Harry turned back to the horn. "So the fact that it's so precious is the reason you like coming here?"

 

"Not quite." There was a sudden tension in Malfoy's voice. "What makes it special for someone like me is the fact that, to the best of my knowledge, this is the only magical object in the whole city of Vienna. Apart from my wand, and now yours too, of course."

 

"Oh." Harry wasn't quite sure what to reply to that; there were a lot of questions he'd have liked to ask, but given Malfoy's expression, he didn't think there'd be any answers.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

Malfoy snapped out of his rather sombre mood the moment they stepped out of the Treasury. "And that's it for your tour, Potter. I hope you enjoyed it and won't come bothering me again."

 

Harry couldn't help grinning; there hadn't been any real venom in the jibe, it had sounded as if Malfoy had simply said it out of habit. "I still owe you the money for the entrance fees, don't I?"

 

"That you do." Malfoy did a quick calculation is his head and made a face – on anyone else, Harry would have called it a pout – when Harry, after handing him the money, pointedly kept waiting for the change. "What, no tip?"

 

"I could still ask for that receipt, Malfoy."

 

Malfoy gave him a baleful look. "Fast learner, are you?"

 

"Well, how about dinner instead?"

 

Harry bit his tongue a split second to late. The idea had come absolutely out of nowhere, and he'd spoken before the rational part of his brain had been able to catch up. What had he been thinking?

 

Malfoy didn't seem overly surprised, though; he just raised an eyebrow. "Are you asking me out, Potter?"

 

_I am not going to blush. Am NOT._ "All I asked," Harry replied as evenly as possible, "was if you wanted to have dinner, nothing else." Remembering the blond young woman from the day before, he added, "If you don't have any other appointments, that is."

 

Malfoy shrugged. "Actually, I don't. All right, then, Potter, where would you like to go?"

 

"You are the one who knows this city inside out, Malfoy, so it's up to you. And don't make it the Hotel Sacher because even I have heard of it."

 

Malfoy grinned. "Don't worry, they wouldn't let you in there dressed like that anyway, Potter. Come on, I think I know a place you'll like."

 

It only occurred to Harry a few minutes later that he might have pointed out how Malfoy wasn't exactly dressed to kill, either. Even if these jeans fit him quite well.

 

Harry shook his head and tried to think about something else.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

"Something wrong with my choice of restaurant, Potter?"

 

Harry looked around the small, dark room, taking in the chipped wood panelling, the rickety tables and the garish spray-paintings on the walls. The air was thick with the smell of spices and cigarette smoke. "It's just that this isn't the type of restaurant I expected you to choose."

 

Malfoy leaned back in his chair, heedless of the fact that he bumped into the back of the man sitting at the table behind him. The place was packed; it was still early in the evening, but they had arrived just in time to get the last free table. "How so?"

 

"I don't know, I didn't think you'd be very fond of curry."

 

"That sounds like it's actually you who isn't."

 

"Well, it's Indian takeaway three times a week back home –"

 

Malfoy gave him an affronted look. "Don't let the owner hear you compare his food to takeaway of any kind. Besides, he's from Sri Lanka, not from India, and he insists there's quite a difference. I wouldn't know, of course, but I certainly know the food is good."

 

Harry shrugged. "It's fine. Seems a bit strange to go to Austria and then eat curry, though."

 

Malfoy made a face. "May I point out that most of the people in here are Austrian? Potter, there's nothing more touristy than trying to stick to 'typical' food all the time. Believe me, after doing tours with foreigners for a year, the mere sight of a _Wiener Schnitzel_ will make you nauseous."

 

"Okay, okay, point taken." Harry opened the menu and closed it again when he realised it was entirely in German. "I suppose it's up to you to order the food, unless you're willing to translate the whole menu for me."

 

"Definitely not when I'm off-duty." Malfoy gave him a grin. "You'll have to trust me again, I'm afraid." He signalled the waiter, who greeted him in a way that indicated he was a regular patron, and placed the order.

 

"So, Potter," Malfoy said when the waiter had left, "after answering your questions all day, it only seems fair that I get to ask a few of my own. Why is it that the wizarding world's boy hero lives on takeaway curry? Is there no red-headed wife back home to cook for you?"

 

"What?" It took Harry a moment to get who Malfoy was talking about; the short fling with Ginny seemed so far in the past that he hardly ever thought about it these days. "Oh – no. Definitely not."

 

Malfoy cocked an eyebrow. "You actually managed to avoid becoming a Weasley-in-law? It seems I've underestimated you."

 

Harry shot him a dark look. "That will be enough of my love life, thank you very much."

 

"Oh, come _on_, Potter. I'm in exile here, completely cut off from all the sources of gossip. Hell, you could have been divorced thrice and through a torrid affair with McGonagall for all I know."

 

Now it was Harry's turn to make a face. "Thank you for this lovely mental image. But before you keep pestering me, I never married, and I'm currently unattached. As it is, not even Rita Skeeter would find anything gossip-worthy in my life. Happy now?" He'd honed his ability to lie with a straight face during the war, and it was still useful on occasion – after all, the fact that Rita Skeeter had found out nothing about him that seemed of interest to her was due to a lot of caution on Harry's part, not to the lack of gossip-worthy things going on in his life.

 

"Spoilsport." Malfoy fished a packet of cigarettes out of his backpack and used the candle on the table to light one. "Do you mind?"

 

"Does that mean you'd put it out if I said yes?"

 

"Hardly." Malfoy inhaled deeply, and Harry looked away, determined to never again notice _anything_ that Malfoy did with his mouth – the memory of the ice cream interlude was quite enough in that regard.

 

"That stuff is deadly in the long run, you know."

 

Malfoy shrugged. "So what? Your average pureblood has a life expectancy of about one hundred and fifty years, and I doubt I could hope to explain that to a Muggle doctor anyway."

 

Harry couldn't help wincing. "If that was meant as a joke, Malfoy, it wasn't funny in the slightest."

 

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

 

Harry stared at him. "Does that mean you actually expect to spend the rest of your life among Muggles?"

 

Malfoy shrugged, his face blank. "It certainly looks that way right now." Only now he seemed to notice Harry's expression. "What?"

 

"Sorry, I – I just can't believe that you of all people would be willing to simply accept that."

 

"Come on, Potter, there's no need to hold back – I bet you're dying to tell me that it's no more than I deserve."

 

"Don't ever presume that you know what I'm thinking, Malfoy."

 

"Right." Malfoy snipped a bit of ash away from the tablecloth. "Still, I'm sure you're not shedding any tears over the fact that the last remaining Malfoy is out of the wizarding world for good."

 

Harry had been studying his fingernails to avoid looking at Malfoy, but at this, his head snapped up. "The last remaining...? So Lucius _is_ dead."

 

"You didn't know?"

 

"No one ever found out what happened after he disappeared from Azkaban."

 

Malfoy shrugged. "Yes, he's dead. Has been for years, in fact."

 

There was a pause before Harry quietly said, "I'm sorry."

 

Malfoy took a last drag, then stubbed out the cigarette. "No, you're not. Next topic, please."

 

Harry ignored the second part. "All right, I'm not sorry about the death of Lucius Malfoy. But I _am_ sorry that you lost your father."

 

Malfoy's face twisted into a sneer. "I'm really touched. Feeling better now that you've fulfilled your daily quota of posturing?"

 

Harry bit his lip to keep himself from saying anything else he'd regret.

 

An uncomfortable silence settled over the table, which was interrupted by the waiter who returned with their food. Harry eyed the contents of his plate; they smelled nice, but most of them looked unfamiliar. "What is it?"

 

"Beginner's special." Malfoy was grinning again; it was quite astounding to see how a person who'd been able to hold a grudge for years when he'd been a child now put his anger behind him in a matter of minutes. Either, Harry reckoned, Malfoy had been forced to grow a thicker hide, or he'd become a better actor. "It's basically a little bit of everything the kitchen has to offer – for those who either don't know what they're getting themselves into, like you, or who can't make up their minds, like me."

 

Once he'd started eating, Harry had to admit there was nothing to be said against Malfoy's choice of restaurant; everything he tried was delicious, although he wasn't always sure what exactly he was eating. The food was spicy, but not overly hot; the plate was half-empty before Harry noticed a burning sensation on his tongue and at the back of his throat that was quickly followed by a feeling of rather intense warmth spreading through his body.

 

Malfoy gave him an amused look. "From the way you're colouring up, I'd say you just discovered that most of the spices they use here take some time until you feel the full impact. Here, have a sip of _lassi_, it helps."

 

Eyes watering, Harry reached for the glass of white liquid that Malfoy pushed towards him. The cool, sour taste of yoghurt took away most of the burning, although he still felt uncomfortably hot. "You could have warned me before, you know."

 

"Yes, but where's the fun in that? Besides, I thought you'd be used to it, what with your curry-eating habits back home. Better order a glass of your own, you might need it."

 

With the help of two more glasses of _lassi_, Harry got through the rest of his food without further incidents. When the waiter had taken away their empty plates, he shot Malfoy a glare. "You ordered it extra-spicy, didn't you?"

 

"Just medium, honestly. Extra-spicy is how they're eating it in Sri Lanka, and the owner tells me he has yet to meet a European who can take that." Malfoy lit another cigarette and leaned back in his chair with an almost rueful smile. "It seems there are some things you have to grow up with to be able to swallow them. My first run-in with the grated horseradish that Austrians eat with smoked ham very nearly was my last, to the great amusement of my fellow students at the uni."

 

Harry wasn't sure how Malfoy would take further questions about his personal life, but his curiosity won out. "How was it? Studying at a Muggle university, I mean."

 

Malfoy gave a one-shouldered shrug. "By the time I started, the worst was already behind me – I'd learned how to function among Muggles, I had my own place to stay and enough money to get by. It was pretty stressful, what with uni classes during the day, tour guide classes in the evening, and all kinds of odd jobs in between to pay the bills, but it wasn't so bad. Things got easier in my third semester, when I finished my tour guide training; there was more time left for studying then, and besides, I could start working in a job I was actually qualified for instead of serving burgers at McDonald's."

 

It was all Harry could do not to burst out laughing. "You worked at _McDonald's_?"

 

Malfoy shrugged again, his face impassive. "For a while. It was better than some other jobs I've had, trust me."

 

"Really." Now Harry felt even more curious than before, but Malfoy didn't seem willing to go into details. "You've come a long way since then, it seems."

 

"Yes, and I actually take quite a bit of pride in that." Malfoy gave him a strange look. "Ironic, isn't it? But when I came here, there wasn't much of a choice for me. All I could do was make the best out of what I had, even if it was a far cry from how I once thought my life was going to be."

 

"Tell me about it." Harry held Malfoy's gaze steadily. "I wasn't quite expecting to spend my late teens fighting a war and my early twenties picking up the pieces, either."

 

Malfoy was the first to look away. "No, I suppose not."

 

Taken aback by such a concession from Malfoy, Harry said the first thing that came to his mind. "I really wonder how it is for someone who grew up among wizards to be faced with the Muggle world for the first time."

 

"Unpleasant." Malfoy made a face. "I suppose the other way round was more fun?"

 

"Fun is probably not the best word to describe it." Even if it seemed to have happened a lifetime ago, Harry clearly remembered the day Hagrid had first told him about the wizarding world. "It was – breathtaking, really. During the first months, I somehow felt as if I was living in a dream from which I might wake up any moment."

 

"Funny, that. For me, it felt more like a nightmare from which I desperately _hoped_ to wake up."

 

Now it was Harry's turn to shrug. "That part came later."

 

"And we're back at another impasse." Malfoy stubbed out his cigarette and shoved the ash tray aside. "You know, Potter, speaking of cross-cultural experiences, I think I figured out why you were so brilliant on a broom the very first time you flew one."

 

"What?" Harry was quite surprised by the change of topic. "How so?"

 

Malfoy gave him a superior grin. "For someone who knows how to ride a bike, flying must be a piece of cake. It's all a question of keeping your balance and using your body weight correctly, and it's much easier to achieve that kind of control in the air than on the ground. Considering I had to learn it the other way round, you definitely had an advantage there."

 

Harry smirked. "Sorry to burst your bubble, Malfoy, but I've never ridden a bike in my life. You'll have to live with the fact that I'm just a natural flyer."

 

"Are you serious?" Malfoy seemed incredulous. "How's it possible to grow up among Muggles without learning to ride a bike? I thought Muggle children practically grew up on them."

 

"Most of them do, but my aunt and uncle would have gnawed their own arms off before buying me a bike. I once asked my cousin to let me try his, but all it earned me was a punch in the gut."

 

Malfoy cocked an eyebrow. "I always thought those stories about your abusive Muggle relatives were just a myth to make you appear more interesting."

 

"I wish you'd been right, believe me."

 

"Strange." Malfoy shook his head. "Why would Dumbledore let them have you, then? I bet there were enough wizarding families who were gagging to take you in."

 

Harry felt a painful stab of bitterness at hearing Dumbledore's name out of Malfoy's mouth. No matter how much Malfoy might have changed, this was a topic he was not going to discuss with him. "Malfoy, I don't talk about your father, and you don't talk about Dumbledore, do you understand me?"

 

"Fair enough." Malfoy, unfazed, started rummaging through his backpack. "Let's keep talking about bikes, then." He dug his wallet out of the backpack and signalled the waiter.

 

"There's really not much to talk about, given that I've never ridden one."

 

A predatory grin spread over Malfoy's face. "Would you like to learn?"

 

"Don't tell me you'd be willing to teach me?"

 

"Of course I would – do you really think I'd pass up a chance to see you fall on your face?"

 

Harry scowled at him, realising he'd just walked into a blatantly obvious trap for the second time within twenty-four hours. "What makes you so sure I would fall?"

 

"Experience, Potter." Malfoy gave him an angelic smile that made Harry itch to smack him. "You're welcome to prove me wrong, of course – if you think you can."

 

Since he'd already taken the bait anyway, Harry decided to meet the challenge head-on. "When?"

 

Malfoy's grin turned triumphant. "How about tomorrow morning? It would be quite convenient since I'm taking a group of Dutch tourists on a bike tour in the afternoon anyway."

 

"What an amazing coincidence." Harry did his best to sound sarcastic, but he realised to his own surprise that he was more amused than annoyed. Besides, he was quite confident he wouldn't make such a fool of himself as Malfoy seemed to believe.

 

"Yes, isn't it?" Malfoy was about to say more, but he was interrupted by the waiter who came over with the tab. Harry reached into his pocket for his own wallet, but Malfoy shook his head. "Let me get that. You already got ripped off by your tour guide today, after all."

 

Harry shot him a glare, which didn't seem to impress Malfoy in the slightest. "Just out of curiosity, by how much did you overcharge me?"

 

"About twenty percent." Malfoy paid, then turned back to Harry with a smirk. "What can I say, Potter? It has been a pleasure doing business with you."

 

"It's almost reassuring to see you're still the same cheating twerp you were back at school."

 

"Really, Potter, you should mind your temper – language like that only goes to prove you're still the poor loser you were back then."

 

Gritting his teeth, Harry shoved back his chair to get up, only to slump back into his seat with a yelp when his knees and feet protested violently. Malfoy, who had stood up in a fluid, graceful movement that looked far too practised to be spontaneous, gave him an indulgent look. "Sore feet? There's no need to glare daggers at me, I know how exhausting a day of ambling around can be."

 

"It doesn't seem to affect you, though." Grimacing and moving a lot more slowly than before, Harry finally got to his feet. He'd have loved nothing more that to stretch until his vertebrae cracked, but he'd be damned if he'd give Malfoy even more proof that he was aching all over while the git looked fresh as a spring morning.

 

"I've been doing it at least three times a week for a couple of years now, Potter, I'm well used to it. Take a hot shower before you go to bed, you'll be all right in the morning."

 

"I, er – right." Harry was still trying to recover from the shock of Malfoy advising him on his well-being when the waiter came back and placed a little plate on the table with a beaming smile. Harry didn't quite believe his eyes when he saw it held two lollipops in garishly-coloured wrapping.

 

"Do you have any children you failed to mention, Malfoy?"

 

"God forbid." Malfoy was already unwrapping one of the lollipops, which turned out to be a bright red colour. "I don't know how the owner first came up with this idea, but it has become a tradition by now that each guest gets a lollipop before leaving. Perhaps it's the proximity of the university; students are a childish bunch, if I say so myself."

 

The reply Harry had been about to give died halfway between his brain and his mouth when Malfoy's lips closed around the lollipop. Compared to what his tongue seemed to be doing to the innocent chunk of sugar, the ice cream display had been positively chaste.

 

Harry turned around abruptly and headed for the door without caring whether Malfoy followed or not; he felt in rather desperate need of fresh air all of a sudden. Malfoy only caught up with him at the corner of the small side street where the restaurant was located. "You in a hurry, Potter?"

 

"I'm tired." Harry did his best not to notice how Malfoy's lips were now glazed with sticky red sugar. "When do I meet you tomorrow?"

 

"How about ten o'clock? Take the underground line number one and meet me at the stop Donauinsel, right on the platform. If you get lost, you've got my mobile phone number."

 

"All right. I'll see you tomorrow, then."

 

Malfoy smirked around the lollipop. "Don't forget to wear something you don't mind ripping."

 

Harry gritted his teeth. "We'll see about that. Good night, Malfoy."

 

"Wait a moment, you forgot this." Winking at Harry, Malfoy pressed something into his hand that turned out to be the second lollipop. "Sweet dreams, Potter."

 

Harry quickly pocketed the wretched thing; then he turned on his heel and fled.

 

In spite of Malfoy's advice, he was in for a very cold shower once he got back to the hotel.


	4. June 18th, 2005

** _June 18th, 2005_ **

 

 

"Slept well, Potter?"

 

Harry felt his face heat up before he was able to remind himself that Malfoy could only be talking about his sore feet from the day before, because he definitely had no way of knowing that Harry had woken up twice during the night from _very_ disturbing dreams. All right, perhaps not actually that disturbing – they might have been considered perfectly normal wet dreams if they hadn't left him with an afterimage of the person he'd been dreaming about. As a result, Harry had had to begin the day with another cold shower because he'd be damned if he brought himself off to the image of Malfoy licking his fingers.

 

He decided to ignore the question and looked around the underground platform where Malfoy had already been waiting for him. "I always thought the word 'underground' had something to do with, you know, being underground? This looks like we're on a bridge."

 

"That's because we are." Malfoy turned to leave and gestured for Harry to come with him. "The underground line crosses the river here, and I suppose bridges are easier to build than tunnels."

 

"Okay, but a stop _on_ the bridge?"

 

"Well, how else should people get to the island?"

 

"Island?"

 

Malfoy gave him the indulgent look Harry had already got to see a few times during their tour the previous day. "Yes, Potter, island. That's what the name _Donauinsel_ means – it's an artificial island between two arms of the river Danube. It was built as a part of a huge flood control plan, but by now it has become Vienna's number one local recreation area. And that's all the tour-guiding you'll get from me today, freebies are bad for business."

 

Harry shrugged and followed Malfoy down a flight of stairs that led to an exit underneath the bridge, next to the river. Across the water, the city came right up to the riverbank, but on the island itself, there were no other buildings to be seen, just trees and unkempt-looking meadows. A narrow, paved road, lined by bushes, ran parallel to the water.

 

Only now, Harry remembered that one important item seemed to be missing. "Where's your bike?"

 

"Over there." Malfoy walked around the underground exit to the other side of the building where a couple of bikes were locked to metal bars sticking out of the ground. From here, Harry could see for the first time that they were indeed on an island – it was much narrower than he'd expected; the second arm of the Danube seemed merely a hundred metres away. On the other side of the water, the city began again; the view of a long line of huge concrete blocks just across the river made the small patch of green in between look almost surreal.

 

Meanwhile, Malfoy had returned with his bike and gestured towards the small road Harry had noticed earlier. "Let's go."

 

"Where are we going?"

 

Malfoy smirked "For the sake of your dignity, I thought we'd better get away from the area next to the underground stop. It's early, but there will soon be a fair number of people around here, and you probably don't need an audience when you're making a fool of yourself."

 

"How very considerate, Malfoy. I didn't know you had it in you."

 

"There's a great deal you don't know about me, Potter."

 

Harry found he had no ready answer to that.

 

They walked in silence for quite a while. The sky was overcast, but it was still warm; Harry could hear children laughing somewhere close by and the distant buzz of the city from the other side of the river, but apart from that, there was only the gurgling of the water and the sounds of birds and insects. They passed a few people sitting on benches who were feeding ducks and swans, then a couple of teenagers on roller blades, but the farther they got, the lonelier the island seemed to become. The scenery changed too: there were no more benches or playgrounds, the trees grew taller, and the meadows were replaced by thickets of bushes and weeds.

 

Harry looked around; there was no one else in sight anymore. Even the sounds of voices in the distance had faded a while ago. "This place didn't seem so big at first glance."

 

"That's because the island is quite narrow, but it's more than twenty kilometres long. I think we've gone far enough now." Malfoy stopped and grinned at Harry. "Ready to kiss the pavement, Potter?"

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

At the third attempt, Harry finally managed to cover a few metres before he lost his balance; on the downside, this meant that he hit the ground a lot harder than the first two times. It took him a while to disentangle himself from the bike and get to his feet again, careful not to give any signs of the burning pain in his right arm where the rough pavement had scraped away the skin.

 

He fully expected Malfoy to laugh at him again – like he'd gleefully done the first two times – and was quite surprised to see him frown. "Okay, Potter, you've tried it your way. Will you now finally let me cast a Cushioning Charm before you break something?"

 

"Don't tell me you give a damn about my bones, Malfoy," Harry snapped while he dusted himself off.

 

"I couldn't care less about your bones, but I'm beginning to worry about my bike. I need it this afternoon, remember?" Malfoy stepped closer and grabbed Harry's arm. "Look at that, you moron, you're bleeding!"

 

Harry tried to yank his arm away, but Malfoy didn't let go. "Leave me alone, it's nothing!"

 

"What, healing charms are too sissy for the resident hero, too?"

 

"No, but I can cast one myself."

 

"Oh, really." Malfoy rolled his eyes. "How many complex spells have you managed to cast since you came here, Potter? It took me years to get used to the way this place drains magic, and I very much doubt you were able to manage it in two days. And now hold still, for pity's sake!"

 

Somewhat baffled by the sudden outburst, Harry complied. Malfoy slowly ran his free hand over the bleeding arm while his lips moved soundlessly; his other hand was still holding Harry's wrist. His fingers felt warm and firm against Harry's skin, and Harry was suddenly very glad that Malfoy was looking at his elbow and not at his face because he felt his cheeks beginning to heat up.

 

_Oh, sod it. Who am I trying to fool?_

 

He took a deep breath and finally allowed himself to face the facts. All right, so he _was_ attracted to the git. It was only natural, after all; Malfoy had cleaned up rather nicely, and since Harry was currently facing a persistent dry streak in his love life, it wasn't surprising that he would react to him on a purely physical level. There was no need to worry about it; it wasn't as if he were planning to act upon this attraction. Malfoy would never know, and after today, Harry would probably never see him again anyway.

 

It wasn't until Malfoy let go of him that Harry noticed the pain was gone. He inspected the unmarred skin, impressed despite himself by Malfoy's handiwork. Malfoy watched him with a frown; when Harry kept quiet, he finally said in a rather affronted tone, "You're welcome."

 

Harry sighed. "_Thank you_, Malfoy. I suppose you were right about the Cushioning Charm, after all."

 

"Wonders will never cease." Malfoy let his backpack slide off his shoulder – Harry fleetingly wondered if he ever carried it the way it was intended for – and reached inside. "Wait a moment, that one works better with a wand."

 

"You seem to use a lot of wandless magic."

 

Malfoy shrugged. "It's a necessity. There are only so many situations where it's possible to wave a wand around when one lives among Muggles. Most of the time, I have to be more inconspicuous than that, so I get a lot of training. It's just the more powerful spells or the ones I rarely use that I still need my wand for."

 

He cast the charm and gestured for Harry to get on the bike again. Harry did so, gingerly arranging himself on the uncomfortable saddle. It was an awkward position to be in, one foot still on the ground and the other one on the pedal, the bike at an odd angle between his legs and the saddle poking him in all the wrong places. He shifted his weight a bit and almost yelped in surprise when his lower back came in contact with an arm: Malfoy was holding on to the bicycle, and he didn't look as if he were planning to let go.

 

"We'll try it differently now. It's much easier to go at a higher speed, so I'll give you a good shove to start you off and then hold on for as long as I can to help you keep your balance. The worst that can happen is that you fall again, and with the charm in place there won't be much harm done. Just try not to fall on top of me, okay?"

 

"I'll do my best." Harry took a deep breath and kicked down on the pedal, struggling to right the bike and get his other foot on the second pedal at the same time. The bike wobbled dangerously for a moment, and he would have toppled over if it hadn't been for Malfoy's quick reaction when he grabbed Harry's shoulder to keep him upright. With the other hand, Malfoy gave the saddle a hard push that made the bike shoot forward and almost caused Harry to lose his balance again. "Just keep going, Potter, I've got you."

 

Determined not to make a fool of himself again, Harry started pedalling and realised that Malfoy had been right: it was much easier to keep his balance once he'd picked up a bit of speed. Malfoy soon had to run to keep up with him, but keep up he did, his arm a warm, secure presence at Harry's back, his other hand gripping Harry's shoulder. It was a bit distracting, and Harry did his best to go faster to shake him off. There was another difficult moment when Malfoy finally let go, but Harry managed to keep going.

 

_This isn't so bad_, he couldn't help thinking. The whole thing still felt rather unstable, and he really couldn't detect any similarities to riding a broom – a broom didn't start to wobble under you when you dared to shift by as much as a millimetre, and when you were flying, you didn't have to worry about bumps and cracks in the pavement that threatened to tip your balance either, but he still thought he might be able to get the hang of this if he had a bit of time to practise. If no one expected him to do stunts like turning or stopping, that was.

 

Unfortunately, the latter would be unavoidable soon. From the sound of it, Malfoy was still running after him, but he seemed to fall back; finally Harry heard him shout from quite a distance, "Not bad, Potter. Now stop!"

 

Harry pulled the brakes – much too hard, as it turned out, because the bike came to a halt so abruptly that he almost did a somersault over the handlebars. In a desperate and quite inelegant manoeuvre, he managed to get one foot on the ground and half hopped, half fell off the bike as it slipped away under him. He probably looked like the world's greatest prat in the process, but at least he didn't hit the pavement again.

 

By the time he'd sorted himself out, Malfoy had caught up with him; he was slightly out of breath, but grinning as if Christmas had come early. "Potter, I could kiss you right now. The image of the stunt you just pulled will remain one of my most precious memories for the rest of my life."

 

"Oh, shut it, Malfoy." Still, Harry couldn't quite manage to feign annoyance; he had to grin himself when he tried to imagine how he must have looked. "I must admit, this was fun. I still like flying better, though."

 

Malfoy's face darkened slightly for a moment, and Harry winced, realising a split second too late that he'd put his foot in his mouth again – given what Malfoy had told him about flying the day before, the remark had been pretty tactless. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to - "

 

Malfoy cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Forget it. Care for a break? Preventing you from smashing your head on the pavement is hungry work."

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

"Do I dare ask what exactly I'm eating here?"

 

Malfoy had just taken a huge bite; it took him a while until he could answer. "Don't like it?"

 

Harry eyed the content of his bread roll. It looked like a kind of meaty paté with a crispy crust; the smell was enticing and the taste surprisingly spicy. It was still hot, probably thanks to a Preservation Charm. "No, it's quite good, just unfamiliar. What is it?"

 

"It's called _Leberkäse_. You were whining about not eating Austrian food yesterday, so I brought the most Austrian snack I could think of."

 

"What's it made of?"

 

"Horse meat," Malfoy answered with a deadpan expression.

 

Harry had been about bite off another mouthful, but now he quickly lowered his roll. "Oh, come _on_!"

 

"I'm quite serious. Most butchers use pork and beef nowadays, but the original recipe asks for horse meat, and you still get it in a few places. Tastes much better than the other stuff, believe me." He grinned smugly when he saw Harry's expression. "Squeamish, Mr Hit-me-with-the-local-cuisine?"

 

Harry shot him a glare and quickly took another bite. "Try me."

 

"Don't talk with your mouth full, Potter," Malfoy replied mildly.

 

Deliberately _not_ thinking about horses, Harry finished the rest of his roll before he addressed Malfoy again.

 

"You didn't happen to bring anything to drink, too?"

 

Malfoy rolled his eyes and reached into his backpack. "I live to serve."

 

Harry inspected the bottle of fizzy, yellowish liquid suspiciously. "Anything I should know before I drink this?"

 

Malfoy shrugged. "It's an Austrian soft drink that's allegedly made from herbs, although I wouldn't bet on it."

 

Harry tried it cautiously. "Tastes a bit like ginger ale." Only then did he look over at Malfoy. "Hey, you brought a water bottle for yourself?"

 

"I can't stand this sticky sweet stuff." Malfoy took a sip and smirked at Harry. "It was you who asked for the local variety, was it not?"

 

"You're determined to make me eat my words, aren't you?"

 

"Of course," Malfoy shot back. "Literally, too."

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

By the time they had finished their lunch, the sun had come out behind the clouds. Harry couldn't resist the temptation to flop back onto the grass where they were sitting and bask in the glorious warmth for a moment. The sun was right above him, so he closed his eyes, which turned out to be a mistake – because the next thing he knew was waking up with a profound feeling of disorientation.

 

He opened his eyes and turned his head in the direction where Malfoy had been before. He was still there, and he didn't seem to notice that Harry was looking at him. He was sitting with his legs crossed and his left hand stretched out, palm up, in front of him; there was an expression of deep concentration on his face, and his eyes were fixed on three small pebbles that were slowly circling in the air above his hand. While Harry was watching him with wide eyes, he picked up another pebble with his free hand and placed it on his palm; after a moment, it rose into the air to join the swirling dance of the other three.

 

"Malfoy," Harry finally said in a hushed voice so as not to startle him, "what are you doing?"

 

Malfoy didn't look up, and his concentration didn't seem to waver since the pebbles kept up their slow movement. "Just playing around, Potter."

 

He snapped his fingers, and the pebbles dropped into his palm. Only now did he turn his head to face Harry. "Slept well?"

 

"I didn't mean to fall asleep. How late is it?"

 

"Just past twelve. I don't have to pick up my group until two, so I thought I'd let you have your beauty nap."

 

Harry ignored the obvious attempt at returning to their earlier bantering. "That was quite an impressive display of wandless levitation."

 

Malfoy shrugged. "Just a bit of nostalgia. I used to practise here during my first years in Vienna."

 

"You came here to practise wandless magic? Why?"

 

"I couldn't afford my own flat then, and it's almost impossible to do magic at all when you're sharing with several other people. So I came here, to one of the less frequented spots on the island, to practise. I'd had a bit of tutoring in wandless spells, but not very much; I had to make up most of it as I went along."

 

"But couldn't you just, I don't know, have locked yourself in the bathroom or something? Why come all the way to the island?"

 

"Have you tried doing magic here, close to the river? It's a bit easier than in the rest of the city, and in the beginning, when I wasn't yet used to the effect this place has on magic, even this small difference was of some help."

 

Harry frowned. "Why would it be easier here?"

 

"The water gets around, Potter. Here in Vienna, no one did any magic for centuries; there's nothing for a wizard to work with than his own innate magical energy. That's not the way it's usually done, of course; we all got trained to work in a magical environment, where we could draw from the resources around us as much as from our own. In this place, there aren't any, but the water comes from other places where things are often different, and it carries a bit of their magical energy with it. The greater the river, the stronger the energy, so the Danube is quite a source to draw from."

 

"How do you know all this? I don't remember hearing anything about it at Hogwarts."

 

"Perhaps you were preoccupied with other things at the time."

 

From Malfoy's neutral tone, Harry wasn't able to tell what exactly he was implying. "Whatever. So you came here to practise wandless spells to – what? I bet there still wasn't much you could do among Muggles."

 

"True." Malfoy's eyes were fixed on the water; he never looked at Harry when he continued. "Still, I came here quite often. Sometimes I practised spells I might be able to use in a Muggle environment, sometimes I just played around with something because I felt like it." He flung one of the pebbles into the river where it disappeared with a sounding splash. "There were days when I spent hours spinning pebbles in the air just to remind myself that I was still a wizard."

 

Harry remained silent; he felt there wasn't anything he could say to that. He knew that Malfoy had brought his fate upon himself, and that he'd been luckier than many who had paid a much higher price for lesser sins than his. Given their past history, he didn't quite have it in him to pity his erstwhile enemy for what he must have gone through – but he still suspected that the image of Malfoy sitting by the riverside and making pebbles dance over his palm would stay with him for a long time.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

"Any plans for the rest of your stay yet, Potter?"

 

Harry had been staring out of the streetcar window, lost in thought; now he quickly turned his head. "I... well – I'm not sure." They were on their way back into the inner city; Malfoy had graciously allowed Harry to come along to where he was supposed to meet his group, since it was right in the city centre. "I thought about going outside the city for a day or so. You know, to see a bit of the countryside."

 

"Yes, it's quite obvious you're not the city type. Where are you planning to go?"

 

"Any recommendations?" Harry smirked at Malfoy. "Oh, I forgot – no freebies."

 

"Damn right, Potter. But if I were you, I suppose I'd catch a train and go to see the Wachau valley since you seemed quite taken with the river Danube."

 

"What's that?"

 

"Like I said, it's a valley the Danube flows through before it reaches Vienna. It's very beautiful – steep hills covered with vineyards and apricot orchards, lots of nice little towns, and a few impressive castle ruins. It's packed in summer, but the most touristy season hasn't quite started yet."

 

"Sounds good. I'll consider it, thank you."

 

Malfoy merely raised an eyebrow, as if he hadn't expected Harry to thank him. "My pleasure. Right, we're getting off the tram here – we're right in front of the City Hall, you shouldn't have any problems with finding your own way from here."

 

Harry followed Malfoy off the tram and found himself in front of a huge square, flanked by parks, that lead up to a towering, spire-topped structure built from white stone. "Is that the City Hall? It's rather impressive."

 

"Fake neo-gothic kitsch," Malfoy murmured with a dismissive wave of his hand; he seemed preoccupied. "It seems my colleague is already here – okay, Potter, it's been..."

 

Before Malfoy could finish what had clearly been intended as a hasty farewell, a young woman on a bike stopped right in front of them and bombarded him with a long string of German. Malfoy didn't even have time to reply before she noticed Harry and said something that sounded like a question. Malfoy sighed under his breath.

 

"Gerda, this is Po... erm, Harry Potter, a former schoolmate of mine. He's on holiday in Vienna, and I've been showing him around a bit."

 

The woman's dark eyes widened. "A schoolmate! That's interesting, I've never met anyone from your past!" She spoke with a strange accent, but her English was still quite good. She shook Harry's hand and beamed at him. "It's nice to meet you – I'm Gerda, one of Draco's colleagues." Harry couldn't help smiling back; she had a round, open face, dimples in her cheeks and the most contagious smile he'd ever seen.

 

"Nice to meet you, Gerda. Are you two doing tours together?"

 

"Only at the moment. I'm usually doing the bicycle tours, but I will soon have to go on maternity leave, and Draco will take over from me." Now that she mentioned it, Harry noticed the telltale bulge under her loose T-shirt. "Do you like Vienna so far?"

 

"Very much," Harry replied politely and, as he had to admit to himself, truthfully, "I've only been here for three days, but I've seen quite a lot."

 

"Well, you've been in good hands." She smiled at Draco, who seemed to suppress a grimace. "You never said anything about a friend of yours visiting!"

 

Draco opened his mouth, and Harry was sure he was about to point out that they were anything but friends, but all he said was, "I had no idea, we ran into each other by coincidence."

 

Her eyes grew even rounder. "Are you serious? What are the chances?" When Draco didn't answer, she added, "It's too bad you have to work today. But of course you can bring Harry along tonight!" Draco opened his mouth again, but he didn't get a chance to protest because she'd turned back to Harry. "There's a group of us, all tour guides, who meet for a game of Trivial Pursuit once a month. We're meeting at my flat tonight at seven, and you're welcome to join us."

 

"Er..." Harry cast Malfoy a glance, but Malfoy merely shrugged. "That's very nice of you, but I don't speak any German."

 

"No problem. It's a very international group anyway, and everyone speaks at least a little English. Here's my card with the address of my flat – seven o'clock, remember?" She winked at Harry. "I can't wait to ask you a few questions about Draco's past; he's quite mysterious, you know."

 

Harry bit back a smile when he saw Malfoy's face darken. "I'm looking forward to it. I'll see you then, Ma... Draco."

 

Malfoy shot him an unreadable look. "It certainly seems that way, _Harry_."

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

Harry felt a bit nervous when he rang the doorbell at Gerda's flat in the evening. He was running late since it had taken him longer than anticipated to find the place, and he could hear the buzz of voices in the background when Gerda opened the door.

 

"Harry, I'm glad you decided to come! Draco and Ali just called to say that they'll be late, but everyone else is here already. Come in!" She ushered him in and closed the door behind him; only now did Harry notice the little girl that was holding on to her leg and eyeing him suspiciously. Gerda said something in German, which caused the girl to turn her head away and hide behind her mother. Gerda grinned. "That's my daughter Nora; I told her to say hello, but she's a bit shy around strangers. Give her an hour, and she'll be all over you."

 

Harry did his best to smile at the girl, who seemed about the same age as Ron and Hermione's daughter, but only got a glare in return. He usually was quite good with children, but Nora seemed a tough one to charm.

 

He followed Gerda into the living room, where a dozen people were sitting around a coffee table with a Trivial Pursuit board on it. They were chatting noisily, but fell silent when Gerda shouted over the babble. "Okay, we're switching to English now, Harry doesn't speak German. Everyone, this is Harry Potter, a schoolmate of Draco's who's visiting Vienna. Harry, I'll introduce you to the lot, but don't worry, we don't expect you to remember all the names."

 

She started ticking off names and countries of origin; Harry counted eight different nationalities between the twelve people around the table. "You really meant that bit about being an international group, didn't you?"

 

She grinned again. "Tour guides are an international bunch by tradition. It won't be until Ali arrives that the Austrians are even the majority here, the Russians always manage to outnumber us."

 

A brunette, very pretty woman in her early forties stuck her tongue out at her and then turned to Harry. "You went to school with Draco? Tell us about it, he never talks about his past!" The black-haired man next to her elbowed her in the ribs and said something in German. Gerda raised her eyebrows. "Hey, Michele, English, remember? Harry, you have to forgive him, Michele speaks every Romanic language known to man, but English somehow doesn't agree with him." The man merely smirked at this, his huge dark eyes glinting mischievously, so Harry supposed he had at least understood what she'd said.

 

"Come, sit over here." The young Asian woman on the sofa moved over far enough for Harry to sit down next to her. "Just ignore those nosy questions; if Draco doesn't want to discuss his past, that's his business and no one else's."

 

Harry was about to answer truthfully that he had no intention to start dishing out any kind of information concerning Malfoy – _Draco_, he reminded himself, he had to get used to the idea of addressing him by his given name tonight – when the doorbell rang again.

 

Gerda went to open the door and soon came back with Mal- no, _Draco_, who had his arm around the waist of a young blond woman Harry recognised; she'd been the one waiting for him at the opera two days ago. The woman didn't wait for any introduction, but went straight over to Harry and extended her hand. "Hello, I'm Ali."

 

Harry scrambled to his feet and shook her hand. "Harry Potter. It's nice to meet you." She was quite pretty and had a beaming smile, but Harry couldn't help feeling slightly alarmed by the look she gave him; he hadn't been under this kind of scrutiny since he'd last run afoul of McGonagall during his time at Hogwarts.

 

"Likewise. Draco told me a lot about you."

 

Harry did his best not to show his surprise. "Did he now?"

 

Draco, who had stepped up to her, gave her a dirty look. "I'd rather say that she asked a lot of questions about you."

 

"To which you gave very evasive answers." Ali flashed Draco a smile that seemed much too sweet to be true. "Not that I'm not used to that kind of thing from you."

 

"Seriously, I don't understand why you two ever bothered to break up." Gerda, who had just come back into the room with a tray full of wine glasses, shook her head in mock astonishment. "You still behave like an old married couple."

 

"Very funny." Draco took a glass from the tray and gave his ex a final glare. "Speaking of old married couples, where's the boyfriend tonight?"

 

"Working late weekend hours again." Gerda gestured for Draco and Ali to sit. "He told me not to wait for him, so let's get started, okay?"

 

Draco made a beeline for the unoccupied chair that was farthest away from where Harry was sitting, but the young woman next to Harry was faster. "Draco, I think you should sit beside your friend tonight – you're best suited to translate the questions for him since you're the only other native speaker of English."

 

Before Draco could protest, she had stood up and moved over to the chair, leaving him no other choice than to sit down next to Harry on the sofa. Draco made a face, but sat anyway. "It's not as if he's going to know the answers to any of the questions – this is the Austrian edition of the game, isn't it?"

 

"Yes, but not all the questions are that specific." Gerda seemed thoughtful. "But you're right, it might be difficult. We could play in teams of two tonight; you can pair up with Harry and help him out!"

 

Harry gave him a smirk. "That went well, didn't it?" He'd been speaking in a low voice, and Draco pretended not to have heard him.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

"Harry, you're making the British schooling system look _really_ bad."

 

Funny, Harry thought, how Draco managed to pronounce his first name in a way that made it totally clear that he actually meant to say _Potter_. "Didn't you always tell me I was an idiot back at school?"

 

"Yes, but I never expected to be proven right so spectacularly." Draco rolled his eyes while everyone around was grinning – they probably thought the exchange was a bit of nostalgic banter between old friends. "You don't recognise a bleeding Churchill quote? What kind of Brit are you?"

 

"One who isn't interested in Churchill?" Harry asked innocently, which made the people around them grin even more. Still, he had to admit, he really hadn't contributed much to the game yet; he'd never realised before just _how_ clueless about the Muggle world he truly was. If it hadn't been for Draco, they wouldn't have earned a single point so far.

 

"This just goes to prove you overestimate your beloved home country a little bit in that regard, Draco dear." That was Ali, giving Draco a look that seemed almost triumphant.

 

Draco's eyes narrowed. "Oh no, you won't get started on this again. Harry, I have to warn you: back in the distant past of her teenage years" – he ignored Ali flipping him the bird at this – "dear Alienor here spent a year at some posh public school in England, an experience that left her with a ridiculous upper-class accent and a deep loathing for the British schooling system, which she absolutely has to rub into my face at every occasion."

 

Harry bit back a remark how Draco was one to talk about upper-class accents at the last moment; it wouldn't do to give away any information concerning his background, since Draco was obviously very secretive about it. All he could think of to say instead was a lame, "Oh, really?"

 

"Yes, really. Stay away from the topic of school in general if she's present, and don't _ever_ mention anything concerning school prefects. I don't want to hear it!" he added in Ali's direction, cutting off something she'd obviously been about to say. "Since in your country you've never had anything like them..."

 

"Oh, we did, we just called them _capos_," Ali interrupted him with a shrug. Harry had no idea what she meant by that, but from the way everyone around was wincing and the murderous look Draco cast her, he assumed it must have been a rather low blow.

 

Gerda was shaking her head again. "I really don't get the two of you. Harry, just ignore them, that's normal conversation for them. Okay, Michele, it's your turn!"

 

Somewhat relieved, Harry leaned back and watched the game continue. It was quite a novel experience to listen to the buzz of voices speaking English with many different accents and in varying degrees of fluency, and he would probably have enjoyed it if it hadn't been for the prospect of being asked to make a fool of himself again soon.

 

Before it was his turn to answer another question, however, his rescuer arrived in the person of little Nora. She had been playing quietly in a corner for a while, but now came over to tug at her mother's t-shirt and whisper something to her. Gerda answered in a low voice; when she noticed Harry watching the exchange, she gave him a strained smile. "She's a little bored, I'm afraid; she prefers being the centre of attention whenever guests are around."

 

Harry recognised a way out when he saw one. "Do you want me to play with her for a while? If she doesn't mind that I can't speak with her, that is."

 

Gerda seemed quite relieved. "Oh, that would be great – are you sure you don't mind?"

 

"No, it's fine. Draco is probably doing better without me anyway, and you won't have to translate all the questions into English just so that I can fail to answer them."

 

Gerda grinned at this and said something to her daughter that probably was an admonition to behave. "I told her you don't speak German. It won't be a problem, there are plenty of immigrant children who don't know much German in her kindergarten group, so she's used to that." The little girl looked at Harry cautiously, but still offered him her hand. Harry took it and allowed himself to be dragged away from the table.

 

Once Nora had Harry sitting in her corner with her, she pulled out a picture book from under a heap of stuffed animals and put it in his lap, giving him an expectant look. When Harry opened the book, which was filled with pictures of farm animals, she inched closer to him, pointed at the page and started babbling away. For a while, she seemed content talking to herself while Harry did his best to make vaguely affirmative noises. Only when she started pulling at his sleeve, he realised that she'd been repeating the same word several times. Harry frowned; at this point, it was probably necessary to remind her that he hadn't magically acquired the ability to understand her.

 

"I'm sorry, little one, but I have no idea what you're trying to tell me."

 

Nora said the word again and stabbed her finger into the page, which showed a few ducks in a pond. "_Ente_!" When Harry merely looked puzzled, she tapped one of the ducks in the picture impatiently. "_Ente_!"

 

It dawned on Harry that he had signed up for his first ever German lesson.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

Harry had the sneaking suspicion that Nora couldn't talk very well herself yet, but she still seemed hell-bent on teaching him. She had a look of rapt concentration on her face when she pointed out one animal in the book after the other and then stared at Harry until he obediently tried to repeat what she'd said. The result often caused her to giggle and shake her head at this strange grown-up who couldn't even speak properly, but at least she was obviously having fun.

 

It took Harry a while to notice that the buzz of voices in the background was fading. Only when he registered that the room was now totally quiet, he looked up from the book and saw that the game had stopped because most of the people were watching him and Nora.

 

"Oh my God!" The pretty Russian woman had an expression of rapt adoration on her face. "That's the cutest thing I've ever seen in my life!" There were various "Awww" noises coming from people all around, and Harry felt his face heat up while Nora beamed and waved, clearly basking in the sudden attention.

 

Gerda's grin almost split her face in two. "She's probably seen the kids at the kindergarten get German lessons and thought it might work for you too. Are you making progress?"

 

Harry couldn't help grinning back. "A bit, although I'm not sure I always understand her correctly. I rather doubt that the German word for cow is 'Moo', for example."

 

Gerda giggled at this. "It's close. You're great with children, you know – do you have any of your own?"

 

"No, but I'm quite an experienced godfather. My goddaughter's about her age, so I get a lot of practice."

 

"Don't tell me." That was Draco, the familiar sneer back on his face. "Weasley and Granger started producing the next generation of red-heads?"

 

"Sorry to disappoint you, but Bess has brown hair." Harry did his best to return the sneer. "But she's Ron and Hermione's daughter, yes."

 

Ali, who had been in a whispered conversation with the black-haired man named Michele, suddenly turned around and gave Harry a smile that somehow made him feel uneasy. "It seems a pity that a man who's so good with children doesn't have any of his own."

 

Harry merely shrugged. "I'm probably not father material." He hoped the underlying message _It's none of your damn business_ had been clear; it wasn't overly polite, but her remark had been rather out of line too. Even Draco seemed to think so, because he was frowning at his ex, who just shrugged in return. Determined not to let the woman unsettle him further, Harry turned back to Nora and her book.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

Harry was quite relieved that the game was over by the time Gerda took Nora to bed and he could return to the table. The conversation had been going on in German for a while, but everyone switched back to English once he sat down on the sofa again. For most of them, Harry thought, it probably didn't make that much of a difference anyway which foreign language they had to speak.

 

"So, Harry," said one of the men sitting opposite of him, helping himself to another glass of wine from the open bottle on the table, "is there anything else you can tell us about you apart from the fact that you'd make a great kindergarten teacher? Or is that what you do for a living?"

 

With a shake of his head, Harry declined a refill of his own glass which the man was offering; he'd have to tread carefully now, so he'd better keep his wits about him. "No, nothing like that. I work for the government." It was a standard answer that Muggles usually accepted; besides, it was even the truth after a fashion. "It's a rather boring desk job most of the time, but it pays okay."

 

"I never thought you'd end up behind some desk in an office." It surprised Harry that Draco of all people would challenge him on that; he'd have expected him to steer the conversation away from the topic as quickly as possible.

 

Harry shrugged. "It didn't start out that way, but by now, paper work is pretty much all I ever get to do." That, too, was unfortunately true; it wasn't that Harry missed his chaotic first year in the Auror corps, right after the defeat of Voldemort, when they still had to hunt down the last of his followers. It had turned out to be the bloodiest part of the war, just when everyone had already thought it was over. Still, his expectations for his job had been very different from what he was actually doing now.

 

"It's a good thing you're getting away from it for a while then, isn't it?" The Asian woman who had switched seats with him leaned forward in her chair. "What did you see of Vienna so far?"

 

Glad to be back on safe territory, Harry started talking about the sights he'd visited; everybody seemed to take a professional interest, and there were suggestions coming from all around as to what else he shouldn't miss during his time in Vienna. Harry couldn't help thinking that he'd have to stay for seven months, not just seven days, to see everything they were recommending.

 

Meanwhile, Draco had fished out his ever-present backpack from under the sofa where he'd stashed it and was rummaging through the contents. Finally, he pulled out a book that was badly battered and covered in post-it notes. "Speaking of plans for the rest of your stay, I brought you my guide book for the Wachau valley in case you really want to go there. It's in English, and there's some extra information I've added every time I was there, so it might be useful."

 

He held out the book at Harry, who stared at him in surprise. "I, erm, I mean – thank you..."

 

Gerda had just come back into the room and heard the last sentences. "You're going to the Wachau? Oh, that's a lovely idea, you might even get to try the first apricots of the year!"

 

This immediately triggered a discussion whether the apricot season had really begun already and if there even would be any this year since the spring had been cold. Harry didn't want to mention that he really didn't care for apricots; he leafed through the book instead and noticed a sheet of paper stuck between the pages that turned out to be a railway timetable, with the trains he had to take highlighted. He turned to look at Draco, his astonishment growing. "What happened to the 'no freebies' thing?"

 

Draco gave him a smirk. "Ali thought that I shouldn't allow you to get lost somewhere on the way, which you undoubtedly would have. Just make sure that you give the book back to me; I've been using it ever since I started guiding tours to the Wachau, so it holds all my notes."

 

Harry still wasn't sure what to think about this unexpected display of helpfulness. "Yes, of course. You need to give me your address, though."

 

"It's on the front page of the book. Send it back via mail or drop it off at my place – you can put it in my letter box if I'm not at home."

 

Harry opened the first page to look for the address; what he first noticed, however, was the publication date. "You started doing tours there three years ago?"

 

"Yes, why?" There was a slightly defensive edge to Draco's voice that confirmed to Harry that he was on to something.

 

"But you've been working as a guide for longer than that, haven't you?"

 

"Yes, but not outside Vienna." In a low voice that no one else but Harry would be able to hear, he added, "Drop it, Potter, okay?"

 

"Right." Harry went back to leafing through the book. Three years since Draco had started leaving the city; three years since the death of Voldemort. Something told Harry this was no coincidence. "Thank you for this, it will come in handy."

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

When Gerda's boyfriend returned home at a quarter to midnight, looking tired enough to collapse where he was standing, everyone got ready to leave. Harry got an introduction to the Austrian custom of good-bye kisses on both cheeks, which took some getting used to from women who were still virtual strangers. Still, it only seemed common for women to kiss people of their own gender, which he was somewhat grateful for because he really had no intention to give Draco a peck.

 

"It was so nice to meet you, Harry." Gerda looked around the group of people in her corridor who were busy trying to find their own pair of shoes among everyone else's. "Do you want me to call a taxi for you? The tram you'd need isn't running at this hour any more, and the night bus system is a bit complicated."

 

"I've got my car here." Ali seemed to have appeared out of nowhere at Harry's elbow. "You're staying at the Ibis, right? That's on my way home, I'll give you a lift."

 

Being alone in a car with that woman wasn't something Harry was particularly keen on. "That's very nice of you, but I wouldn't want you to inc-"

 

"Nonsense." Ali cut him off with a wave of her hand; out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Draco snickering in the background. "It's no problem at all."

 

"You don't happen to go home via the eighteenth district, sweetheart?" Draco wrapped his hands around Ali's waist from behind and rested his chin on her shoulder. She smiled and turned her head to kiss him on the cheek, but then swatted his hands away. "Very funny. If you think I'll cross the whole city twice just because you're too lazy to take the bus, you're sorely mistaken."

 

Draco made a face and released her. "It was worth a try. Listen, I'm out of the city for the whole day tomorrow, but I'll call you in the evening, all right?" With a final wave at Gerda and a brief nod into Harry's direction, he was out the door.

 

Harry looked after him for a moment, not sure what to make of his behaviour tonight. For a split second, the question whether he was even going to see Draco Malfoy again crossed his mind, but he resolutely pushed it away. Nothing could ever come out of this, so it might just as well end here.

 

\+ + +

 

Harry got into Ali's car in silence, but he was convinced that things wouldn't stay that way. Indeed, the moment Ali had manoeuvred the car out of the rather tight spot where she'd parked it, she said in a tone that sounded way too casual to him, "Can I ask you a question?"

 

"If I say no, is that going to stop you?"

 

She threw him a quick glance. "Did Draco talk to you about me?"

 

He couldn't help grinning at this. "He may have mentioned a thing or two."

 

"Damn the bastard," she murmured, although she didn't sound particularly upset. "So, can I? Only, it's a bit personal."

 

Harry shrugged. "Be my guest."

 

"You're gay, aren't you?"

 

For a moment, Harry didn't want to believe he'd really heard her correctly. "Okay, listen, I don't mean to be impolite, but there's a line between 'personal' and 'rude', and you've just crossed it."

 

She kept her eyes on the road, obviously unfazed by his annoyance. "You realise that I'll take that as a yes."

 

"How the hell is it any of your business?" Harry was doing his best to remain calm, but he still felt his temper rising. "Look, if you're planning to keep this up, I'd appreciate it if you just stopped the car here and let me take a taxi instead. Who do you think you are, the Spanish Inquisition?"

 

"I'm sorry," she replied calmly, "I didn't mean to offend you. This isn't really about you, it's about Draco."

 

This wasn't what Harry had been expecting. "What does _he_ have to do with it?"

 

"When he talked about me, did he tell you why we're no longer together?"

 

"No, but I think I have an idea by now!"

 

She grinned at this, although Harry really couldn't see what was so funny. "So you think that _he_ broke it up?"

 

This gave Harry pause. "Didn't he?"

 

"Definitely not; he was quite upset when I told him that I thought our relationship wasn't going anywhere."

 

Harry frowned at this. "Looks like you get along all right to me."

 

"Oh, we've been friends for years, ever since we did our tour guide training together; we just didn't work as a couple. He does this a lot, you know – dating girls he was friends with before. He usually goes back to being friends with them without a hitch after a while. There was just one exception, and that was a total disaster."

 

Against his better judgment, Harry's curiosity won out. "How so?"

 

Ali stopped at a red light and turned to face him. "Her name was Lena; he met her about three years ago and fell for her at first glance. I've never seen him like this before – they were all but joined at the hip for almost a year, although no one understood what on earth he saw in her because they had absolutely nothing in common. I always wondered if she reminded him of his mother or something like that."

 

The light switched to green, and Ali focused her attention on the road again while Harry tried to determine whether she'd been fishing for information with her last remark. "What does she look like?"

 

"Lena? Short, somewhat stocky girl – snub-nosed, but quite pretty with long brown hair and huge dark eyes."

 

"Then she's nothing like his mother." Harry decided that he could safely volunteer that bit of information. "Sounds like a twin of his girlfriend back at school, though." With a tad of malice, he added, "You know, now that I think about it, _you_ look a lot like his mother."

 

She seemed horrified, which filled Harry with no small amount of glee. "I really could have done without knowing that!"

 

"Then I suppose you shouldn't ask about things he obviously didn't want to tell you about."

 

She gave him a calculating glance. "You think I'm just a nosy, interfering bitch, don't you?"

 

"You mean you aren't?" If she wanted to go for brutal honesty, Harry thought with grim resolve, two could play that game.

 

To his surprise, she smiled at this. "Fair enough. Listen, I'll be upfront with you. He's my best friend, and I'm used to looking out for him. I don't mean to trick you into telling me about his past; he says he's left that part of his life behind for good, and I respect his decision. Besides, I think I've figured out everything I need to know about it on my own."

 

Harry raised his eyebrows. "What did you do, hire a private investigator?"

 

"Oh, please, give me some credit. It's totally obvious that he's a spoilt upper-class boy who's fallen on hard times; I gathered that he had some kind of horrible falling out with his family and left Britain in a hurry. I first met him about half a year after he arrived here, and it was still impossible to miss then that he'd never lived on his own or worked for a living until six months before. He was always trying to hide just how clueless he was about everything, and he was too damn stubborn to ask for help, even when he really needed it. It was rather exasperating, but I still couldn't help admiring how he managed to get by."

 

There was genuine fondness in her tone, and Harry deflated a bit; however obnoxious the woman was, it was clear that she truly cared about Draco. Her assessment of his background hadn't been that far off the mark – at least, not for someone from the Muggle world. He fleetingly wondered how Draco had overcome the technical pitfalls that a pureblood wizard was bound to encounter when he tried to live like a Muggle. Where had he got the necessary papers? He really couldn't imagine Lucius Malfoy's son having a fake passport lying around in his Manor just in case he ever needed to leave the wizarding world in a hurry. It wasn't that hard for a wizard to forge Muggle papers, although it was of course illegal for anyone but Aurors on special assignments to use them – but you had to _know_ about them first, which the Draco Malfoy from Harry's school years most likely hadn't. Harry remembered his own introduction to the wizarding world and tried to imagine what it would have meant to be stranded there without anyone to help him adapt. The idea was downright frightening.

 

"That's all very well, but I still fail to see how your friendship with Draco gives you the right to pry into _my_ private affairs."

 

Ali made a sharp turn to the left and stopped the car in a narrow side street. "Here we are, your hotel is just around the corner. You can get out of the car and leave, or you can stay and hear me out on this, at the risk of me saying things you don't _want_ to hear. It's your choice." Her expression was deadpan, and Harry did his best to match it; he knew a challenge when he heard it, and he wasn't going to run now.

 

"Fine, I'm listening."

 

She opened her seat belt and turned towards him. "Very well. You weren't exactly friends with him when you went to school together, were you?"

 

Harry gave a derisive snort. "That may be the understatement of the century."

 

"Yes, he said as much."

 

"He's been talking about me?" Harry didn't know what to make of this; he really hadn't expected Draco to tell his Muggle ex about their schoolboy enmity.

 

Ali smiled. "When I met him right after that city walk two days ago, he told me he'd just run into his least favourite schoolmate, and although he said he didn't want to talk about it, he kept bringing it up. Yesterday, he rang me up when he came back from dinner with you and complained at length how you were still the same insufferable prat you'd been at school, and then got defensive when I asked him why he'd still offered to take you to the Danube island the next day. Today I came over to his flat before we went to Gerda's place, and he talked about nothing but you falling off the bike the whole time."

 

Harry made a face. "Yes, I bet he loved that."

 

She gave him an exasperated look. "Please don't act as if you didn't know what I'm really saying."

 

"What, that your straight ex-boyfriend has a secret crush on me? You'll have to do better than that."

 

"What if I tell you that I broke up with him because I am convinced that he's really more interested in men?"

 

This left Harry speechless for a moment, which earned him a smug grin from her. "Your expression right now is about how he looked at me when I told him that."

 

"You _told_ him? Are you serious?" Harry tried to picture that scene and gave up; it felt almost surreal even to imagine it. "How on earth did Draco Malfoy react to his girlfriend informing him that she considers him a closet case?"

 

"I think 'stunned' about covers it." She smiled fondly. "I half expected him to freak out, but he took it quite calmly – as if the idea had never even occurred to him and he wasn't sure how to deal with it now." Her smile turned mischievous; Harry couldn't shake off the feeling that she was secretly enjoying this. "Michele had been predicting it for years, although never to Draco's face – I suppose I should have listened to him sooner."

 

Harry rolled his eyes. "And Michele's what, your personal gaydar?"

 

"Well, he says it takes one to know one, and so far, he's never been wrong. He was right about you, wasn't he?"

 

"I thought this wasn't about me?"

 

"Listen, Harry. I'm not blind, I can see that you're interested in him. I don't know you, I have no idea what you're hoping to get out of this, and frankly, I couldn't care less. I _do_ care about him, though, and I know how vulnerable he is right now while he's still trying to figure things out about himself. The last thing he needs is someone who might still hold an old schoolboy grudge against him waltzing into his life and using him for a cheap holiday fling. I don't want to see him get hurt, and if you're planning to hurt him, I'll do everything I can to stop you. Do I make myself clear?"

 

Harry was taken aback. "You think I'm trying to make him fall for me as some kind of twisted revenge?"

 

"Are you?" She'd become very serious.

 

"Most definitely not." Harry shook his head, still boggled by the idea. "Look, Ali, I'm not _planning_ anything. All I know is that two days ago, I ran into someone I thought I'd never meet again in my life, and he'd changed so much that it made me curious about him although I'd hated his guts when we were children. That's all there is to it – I'll be leaving three days from now, and I probably won't even see him again before I leave."

 

"I don't believe the last part for a second, but the rest is still good to hear." She was smiling again now, although it didn't quite reach her eyes. "However, I will tell him tomorrow that Michele thinks you're playing for his team – he can make of that whatever he wants, and if you're really not going to meet him again, it shouldn't concern you."

 

Harry didn't have it in him to remain annoyed with her meddling; she was looking out for someone she cared for, and he found he couldn't really hold it against her, even if she went about it with the charm and subtlety of an attacking hippogriff. "Tell him whatever you please, it doesn't make any difference to me."

 

"Very well, then. Have a good night, and enjoy the rest of your stay." To Harry's surprise, she leaned over and gave him the two customary pecks on the cheeks. "Oh, and when you cross the street, remember to look to your left first, okay?"

 

He couldn't help grinning at this; obviously her need to save people from themselves didn't stop at her ex-boyfriends. "Yes, Mum. Thanks for the lift!"

 

She gave him a little wave as he closed the door behind him and then drove off, leaving Harry standing in the dim light of the streetlamp and shaking his head in bemusement.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

He was still not certain what to make of the talk with Ali when he stepped into his hotel room; his thoughts kept returning to everything she'd told him about Draco, and he caught himself wondering what it would mean if she was right about him being in the closet.

 

_Stop it, for pity's sake. It wouldn't change anything, and you know that._ Still, his musings had left him with the kind of images that had been popping up in his mind at the most inopportune moments for two days now, and despite his best efforts to keep his dirty fantasy in check, his body was reacting to them. He was getting heartily sick of cold showers, but there was no way he'd be able to sleep like this now.

 

Cursing under his breath, Harry went into the bathroom, stripped and squeezed himself into the tiny shower stall. He was already reaching for the tap and bracing himself for the sting of freezing water on his skin when a sudden thought made him pause.

 

Who was he trying to fool at this stage? Himself? _That_ definitely had stopped working a while ago.

 

Feeling oddly dejected and relieved at the same time, Harry turned on the hot water and stepped under the spray, his hand already drifting towards his erection. He lowered his head, braced his free hand against the tiles and started stroking himself with swift, brisk moves. He did his best to keep the whole affair as mechanical and perfunctory as possible; this wasn't about anything but letting off steam so that his libido would hopefully leave him alone for a few hours. He didn't try to suppress the images his mind presented him with, but didn't let himself dwell on them either, although he couldn't help it that it was the memory of Draco licking ice cream off his fingers that finally sent him over the edge.

 

He quickly finished his shower afterwards and got ready for bed. It was well past one a.m., and he felt dead on his feet, but sleep still wouldn't come for a while. He'd satisfied his body's immediate needs, but despite his hopes, it hadn't managed to put his mind at ease. Harry kept tossing and turning in his bed, his thoughts returning to scenes from the past two days – Draco spinning the pebbles over his palm, Draco telling him that he missed flying, Draco tossing his hair back over his shoulder in a move that would have looked girly on anyone else, but somehow looked casual and elegant on him.

 

Harry finally drifted off while he was mulling over the question whether the spell Draco's mother had used on him had only worked on his head or if Draco's hair was now black all over. The last thing that crossed his mind before he fell asleep was a pang of regret at the realisation that he wasn't ever going to find out.

 


	5. June 19th, 2005

** _June 19th, 2005_ **

 

 

It was rather strange, Harry mused, that he'd had to _leave _Vienna to find out that the Danube could indeed be blue sometimes.

 

Far below the cliff where he was sitting with his feet dangling over the edge, the wide river lazily wound between the steep hills of the Wachau valley. It was a beautiful day, and the cloudless sky above was reflected by the darker blue of the water. The colour stood out in stark contrast to the intense green of the hills – dark emerald where they were covered in forest, the light green of vines where the horizontal rows of vineyard terraces lined the steep slopes. The valley was narrow, and most of the flat ground near the riverbanks was taken up either by small villages or by the infamous apricot orchards, but Harry still couldn't quite wrap his mind around the concept that people would take the pains to cut terraces into hills just to grow a wine that – as he'd found out the previous night – was so sour it made your toes curl.

 

Yet it was a scenery of breathtaking beauty that was laid out beneath him. Draco's guidebook hadn't been wrong when it advertised the castle ruin of Dürnstein, which was perched on a rocky cliff high above the Danube right over a small town of the same name, as the place that offered the most splendid view over the valley. There wasn't much to the castle itself, as Harry had found out after a steep, sweaty climb; just a few crumbling walls and a half-collapsed tower. In its glory days, it had served as a royal prison for King Richard Lionheart when he'd been held captive by the duke of Austria (he only knew that because Draco had underlined it in the history chapter which Harry had otherwise skipped), but these times were long gone. Few tourists decided to walk up to the castle nowadays, going for the town instead which Draco's handwritten notes characterised as "an appalling collection of tourist traps". Therefore, Harry could sit here and enjoy the view in blessed peace, with the humming of bees and the chirping of birds the only sounds to break the silence. It was a huge relief after the noisy, bustling inner city of Vienna; there was something in the air that seemed to make breathing easier, and Harry felt himself beginning to relax.

 

The day hadn't started well; he'd overslept and had almost missed his train because it had taken him ten minutes to figure out the ridiculously complicated ticket vending machine (the conductor on the train later informed him that he'd still overpaid). Therefore, he hadn't been in the best of moods during the train ride, and the fact that the landscape outside was a bleak succession of fields hadn't done anything to lift his spirits. He'd soon got bored looking out the window and had started leafing through the guidebook instead, but the tiny notes in Draco's handwriting on the margins of every page had sent his thoughts into most unwelcome directions.

 

Things had only begun to look up when he'd switched trains after an hour's ride and had finally found himself in the famous Danube valley that was, indeed, a both impressive and beautiful place. Following the river, the train slowly made its way through apricot orchards, vineyards, and small villages that mostly were just a cluster of houses around the spire of a church. Harry had done his best to connect the things he saw with the information in the book and had tried very hard not to dwell on how much he'd have preferred to have Draco tell him about them instead.

 

Still, it hadn't been until he'd reached the castle ruin and had taken in the gorgeous view for the first time that he'd begun to think that this trip had been a good idea after all. He'd been sitting here on the edge of the cliff for quite a while now, enjoying the sunshine on his face and watching the river lazily making its way through the valley. The water's slow, steady flow was oddly calming, and Harry couldn't help wondering if Draco had felt it too whenever he had sat by the Danube to practise wandless magic.

 

Almost without thinking, he reached out towards the river, palm down and fingers stretched wide, and concentrated. The tingling was barely perceptible, but it was different from the faded remnants of dead magic that he'd picked up in Vienna – these were the distant echoes of magic that was _alive_, like the heartbeat of a great, living being that was passing him by in the distance. No one had cast a spell here for centuries, Harry was sure about that, but he didn't feel the constant drain on his own magic that had been ever-present in Vienna either. People in this valley were not using the magic around them, but they didn't seem to have given up on it in the same way the inhabitants of Vienna clearly had. He wondered what it had meant for Draco to come here after being holed up in Vienna for years – had it made things easier for him, or had it just served to remind him even more vividly of everything he'd lost?

 

The sound of church bells drifting up to him from the town below finally reminded Harry that he had another train to catch. He felt almost reluctant to leave, and for a moment he considered skipping the rest of Draco's itinerary and spending the whole day in Dürnstein. Remembering the handwritten tourist trap remark in the book, he finally decided against the idea, but he still left the quiet, sunny spot on the cliff with profound regret. He'd felt comfortable and at ease here for the first time since he'd left Britain, which was rather ironic considering that he'd been hoping Vienna would have that effect on him when he'd decided to spend his holiday there.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

By the time Harry stepped off the train in the small town with the curious name Spitz, it was well past noon, and he was beginning to feel hungry. According to the guidebook, the place to go for a quick bite in the Wachau valley was a _Heuriger_, a sort of private tavern that was only open for a certain period of time each year where the local winegrowers sold their own wine and regional food. The guidebook listed at least fifteen of them for Spitz, which made Harry wonder whether the inhabitants ever spent any time at home; most of the addresses, however, were marked with the word "avoid" in Draco's handwriting. There were only two addresses that Draco had circled; one of them had the additional note "daughter of the owner speaks English". His mind made up, Harry set out to find the place.

 

It took him a while, since the establishment in question was situated at the far end of the town and half-hidden between what seemed to be wine cellars of some kind. The entrance was decorated with a wreath of green twigs bound together with colourful ribbons; once Harry had opened the door, he found himself in an open courtyard where a few wooden tables and benches were arranged around a huge apple tree. The setting was rather rustic, but it looked comfortable. A few patrons were scattered across the courtyard, with a middle-aged man in a green apron walking around between them. He came over as soon as Harry had sat down at one of the empty tables; when Harry asked him whether he spoke English, the man gestured for him to wait and disappeared into one of the adjacent buildings, probably to fetch the daughter Draco had mentioned.

 

Given his surroundings, Harry was half expecting a slightly overweight, red-cheeked girl with braids in a dirndl dress to show up. He was therefore quite taken aback when the person who approached his table turned out to be a skinny, pale young woman with short black hair and a pierced nose. She was dressed in black clothes and wore an almost frightening amount of black eyeliner which gave her an appearance that could have been described as "goth" if she hadn't been wearing a little white apron over her jeans.

 

She grinned when she saw Harry's expression, which he hadn't been able to get under control in time; she was obviously used to tourists reacting to her appearance like that. Her English was passable, albeit heavily accented; since Harry didn't understand the menu anyway, he went with her suggestion that he try a dish which she described as "a little bit of everything". After some debate, he even let her convince him to give the local wine another try in the watered-down version that seemed to be the drink of choice this early in the day.

 

She was soon back with his drink, a bread basket and a wooden platter heaped with food. Harry eyed it warily; people here obviously were great believers in meat and regarded vegetables simply as decoration. From her explanation, Harry was able to distinguish seven different kinds of meat and sausages, together with three different spreads made of eggs, lard, and – bingo – more meat. He wondered briefly whether his arteries would ever forgive him for this, but since he was already here, he was determined to face the local cuisine – even though he could almost hear Draco snickering in the back of his mind.

 

The food on his plate might have contained a weekly ration of fat, but it was, for the most part, surprisingly tasty. Apart from one eye-watering encounter with what he belatedly recognised as the grated horseradish Draco had mentioned, Harry got through the meal without incident, although he barely managed to eat half of the portion he'd been served – either people here had different stomachs, or the waitress had thought that he needed fattening. He still didn't like the wine very much, but since it was half water, it wasn't as sour as the stuff he'd tried at Gerda's place the night before.

 

Once he'd pushed the plate away, the gothic waitress returned with a shot glass. "Not bad for the first try," she commented with another grin, "here, I thought you might need this – it's on the house."

 

Harry sniffed the content of the glass, expecting the sharp pang of alcohol, but instead a rich, fruity aroma wafted up from the clear liquid. "What is it?"

 

"Apricot brandy. It's best when you drink it down in one go."

 

Bracing himself, Harry did as instructed – he'd learned to do shots with Firewhisky, after all, so he doubted this stuff would knock him out. The burning he'd been anticipating never came; the brandy was clearly strong, but it went down smoothly, leaving only a curious feeling of warmth and an aftertaste of fruit in its wake.

 

The waitress nodded approvingly; Harry felt as if he'd just passed some kind of test. "Like it?"

 

"Very much, thank you. I didn't know the apricots here were used for making brandy, I thought they were just for eating."

 

"Oh, there are a lot of things you can do with apricots. It's a pity there won't be many this year because we had such a cold spring. Have you had any yet?"

 

Harry shook his head. "I don't like them very much."

 

From the look on her face, he'd just committed some kind of sacrilege, but she didn't say anything further while she cleared the table. When she returned a while later with the tab, she placed a brown paper bag on the table. "I bet you've never eaten real apricots if you don't like them. It's still a bit early, but you're lucky, I found a few ripe ones on the tree in our garden."

 

Harry couldn't help smiling at this. "Are you trying to convert me?"

 

She shrugged with a smug expression. "It's going to work, you'll see. Just eat them soon, they get…" She paused for a moment, clearly searching for the right word, while she made a gesture as if she were squeezing something.

 

"Squashy?" Harry guessed, although every apricot he'd ever eaten so far had been about as soft as a golf ball.

 

"That's it. But believe me, that won't become a problem once you've tried them."

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

Harry passed the next two hours aimlessly strolling along the narrow dirt roads that led through the vineyards around Spitz. It was very warm in the early afternoon sun, so he stayed close to the river where the ground was flat. Since it was a Sunday, no one was working in the vineyards, and the other tourists he'd seen in the town obviously preferred to stay there, allowing him to wander around in blissful solitude.

 

When he got tired, he made his way down to the Danube and sat down in the shadow of a willow tree that grew next to the water. He could hear the hum of traffic from afar, but here by the riverside, the only sounds were the gurgling of the water and the whisper of leaves in the light breeze. For the second time today, Harry felt himself relax, drinking in the quiet peace and the beauty of his surroundings. The ground at his feet was covered in round, smooth pebbles, and almost without thinking, he picked one up and placed it on his palm. It took some concentration, but finally, the pebble rose into the air with a wobbly lurch and hung there for a moment before it fell back into his hand.

 

_Stop it, this is getting ridiculous._ Suddenly angry with himself, Harry flung the pebble into the river where it disappeared with a rather un-dramatic plop. Still, the moment of peace was gone, and he remembered that it would soon be time to go back; a glance at his watch told him that he'd have to leave in twenty minutes or so if he wanted to catch his train.

 

He was beginning to feel thirsty again, so he rummaged through his bag in search of the water bottle. This reminded him of the apricots which he'd stashed there, and he decided to see if the lady in black had known what she'd been talking about. The brown paper bag contained about a dozen fruits that looked very different from the apricots Harry knew: those had been hard and greenish-yellow, these here were dark orange and so juicy that they began dripping immediately when he pulled one apart to take the stone out.

 

A moment later, he was silently apologising to the goth waitress for ever doubting her word. The fruit was so soft that it almost melted in his mouth, the taste rich and incredibly sweet. Within a few minutes, Harry had polished off most of the bag's contents, not caring that he dribbled fruit juice all over himself in the process.

 

He was down to the last three when he reluctantly decided that he should leave a few for later. After a quick look around to make sure no one was watching him, Harry took out his wand and cast a quick Preservation Charm on the paper bag before he put it away. A subsequent Cleaning Charm took care of the sticky juice on his hands and his t-shirt. The charms took more effort than they would have at home, but they were still easier than anything he'd cast in Vienna, and he was again reminded of Draco's words about the magic of the river.

 

Thankfully, he'd run out of time to ponder it further. Shouldering his bag, Harry got to his feet and headed for the town's tiny train station. He'd truly enjoyed the trip, but to his own surprise, he realised that he was rather looking forward to get back to Vienna as well.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

Harry spent most of the train ride home reading the guidebook; on the one hand, he was genuinely interested in a bit of extra information about the Wachau valley now that he'd seen it for himself, and on the other hand, he wanted to make sure that his thoughts wouldn't start wandering again, which would undoubtedly have happened if he'd just stared out of the window.

 

It was almost seven o'clock when the train reached Vienna. By then, Harry began to notice how tired he was, although he still didn't quite understand how one could be so thoroughly knackered from doing basically nothing the whole day. Either being a tourist was a lot more taxing than he'd thought, or he was just getting old – his twenty-fifth birthday was coming up in less than two months, after all. There'd been a time when he'd have been glad to know that he'd live to see twenty-five, but now that he was almost there, the prospect of turning a quarter of a century was a bit depressing, particularly given the way his life seemed to pass him by these days.

 

There was a taxi rank right outside the train station, and Harry decided that he'd done enough walking for the day. He got into the first car waiting in line and was about to tell the driver the address of his hotel when he realised that he was still holding the guidebook in his hand. He'd have to find a post office tomorrow to send it back – or...

 

_What did you just think about your life passing you by? _

 

It only took his rational mind a moment to catch up, but that moment was enough to open the book and indicate to the driver that he should take him to the address written on the front page.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

Twenty minutes later, he was standing in a rather busy street in front of a huge building that had probably been rather stately once, but had clearly seen better days; the greyish facade was cracked, and the plaster ornaments it had been decorated with were crumbling away. The paint on the huge wooden entrance door was peeling, and the brass bell-buttons next to it had been polished smooth by many years of use. Harry studied the little name-tags next to the bell-buttons while doing his best to ignore the fact that his heart was in his throat, but he still couldn't help the nervous clenching of his stomach when he finally found the one that read _D. Malfoy_.

 

_Get a grip, for pity's sake. He won't be home yet anyway._

 

Taking a deep breath, Harry finally pressed the button. There was no response, and he was debating with himself whether he should ring again or just leave when Draco's voice saying "_Ja, bitte__?_" next to his ear almost made him jump.

 

_Oh, right – house intercom_. Feeling like a complete idiot, Harry was about to answer when Draco, after a moment of silence, added with a hint of irritation, "Ali?"

 

"Um, no, it's me." Harry could have kicked himself the moment the words were out, but it was already too late.

 

"That's what they all say." Draco seemed amused, and Harry couldn't really blame him, given how inane he must have sounded.

 

"I'm, er – I just wanted to give you your book back."

 

"Yes, I guessed as much. Come in, then, my flat is on the fifth floor, and I'm not walking down the stairs again."

 

The automatic door-opener buzzed, and Harry found himself in a granite-tiled corridor which, like the facade, must have been really beautiful once before time had taken its toll on the building. It lead up to a spiral staircase whose steps had been worn out by so many feet that they were dangerously slippery now; the rickety banisters were wrought iron and the ceiling once more decorated in crumbling stucco, which gave the whole ensemble a slightly morbid look. Deep down, Harry couldn't help thinking that it was oddly fitting for someone like Draco.

 

It was a long climb up to the fifth floor, and Harry was rather out of breath by the end. Draco was already awaiting him at the door of his flat. He was wearing track suit bottoms and a faded t-shirt; given his damp hair and bare feet, he'd probably just stepped out of the shower.

 

"You're in rather sorry shape for the hero of the wizarding world."

 

"Hello to you too," Harry grumbled, still puffing, "you couldn't have found a place with a lift?"

 

"Not for the rent I'm currently paying, I'm afraid. Remember, I'm a humble tour guide and have to make ends meet."

 

"Speaking of tours, here's your book." Harry handed it over and took care not to let his fingers brush against Draco's. "Thanks again, it was very helpful."

 

Draco just nodded. "So you liked the Wachau?"

 

Harry was about to answer when he had to step aside because the tiniest old woman he'd ever seen was slowly tottering along the corridor with a walking stick, making him feel rather silly about the fact that _he_ had complained about the stairs. She gave Draco a beaming smile and eyed Harry curiously while she hobbled past; Draco, completely unfazed, said something in German that sounded like a greeting. Harry fleetingly remembered the Draco Malfoy he had known at school, who'd probably have kicked little old Muggle ladies down the stairs instead of greeting them politely, and he marvelled once more at the cruel irony of this whole scenario.

 

Draco sighed when the woman had finally rounded the corner. "Great, now she'll be pestering me for weeks with questions about you."

 

Harry shrugged. "I doubt I'm that gossip-worthy."

 

"That must be a rather shocking change for you." There was no malice in Draco's tone. "But everything is gossip-worthy when you're eighty-five and don't leave the house much."

 

"I see." Harry did his best to sound casual. "Then I suppose I shouldn't stand around on your doorstep any longer before I ruin your reputation."

 

"You'd better not."

 

Harry's heart sank when Draco stepped back from the door; that was it, then. Draco frowned at him; when Harry, uncertain how to react, just remained where he was, he made an impatient gesture and opened the door wider.

 

"Well, are you coming in or not?"

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

A wizard without Harry's level of training might have missed the faint tickling sensation when he stepped over the threshold of Draco's flat, but Harry had no trouble interpreting it.

 

"You _warded_ this place?"

 

Draco closed the door and gave Harry a curious look. "Don't tell me you're surprised?"

 

"As a matter of fact, I am," Harry admitted as he followed Draco into what appeared to be the living room. "How do you manage to keep wards up in a place like this? And for what reason, since it's next to impossible to cast anything major here? I doubt Voldemort himself would have been able to pull off an Unforgivable in this city."

 

Draco shrugged. "I wouldn't be where I am today if I had been willing to take any chances. It's not even that difficult to maintain the wards since I've been using a lot of magic in my flat over time, so the draining effect is weaker here."

 

"I see." Harry was busy studying his surroundings, although he tried not to stare too openly. As far as he could tell, Draco's flat was in much better condition than the facade and the corridors of the building; the living room was airy and spacious, with a dark hardwood floor and white walls lined with bookshelves. A somewhat battered sofa and a squashy armchair were arranged in front of a telly in the corner; a desk with a computer stood in front of one of the windows. Besides the one through which they'd entered, there were three more doors, all of them covered in photos and picture postcards. The room didn't look overly impressive, but it was well-kept and quite comfortable.

 

"Nice place you've got here."

 

Draco made a face. "I'd thank you if you hadn't sounded even more surprised now. Did you expect me to live in a hovel?"

 

"Well, it's not as if the outside of the building is terribly impressive."

 

"Yes, thankfully it isn't, or I really wouldn't be able to afford the rent. There are two kinds of old houses here: those that have been renovated and are all but unaffordable, and those that haven't been and slowly fall apart around you unless you have a bit of magic at your disposal."

 

"You renovated your flat with magic?"

 

Draco rolled his eyes. "What else did you expect? That I had turned into some kind of do-it-yourself prodigy?"

 

"To be honest, Draco, after seeing you work as a tour guide, I think anything is possible."

 

"I'm afraid you have a point there." Draco flopped onto the armchair and propped his feet up on the armrest of the sofa. "Actually, I did convince my girlfriend at the time that I was good at this kind of thing, mostly to fob her off when she offered to help me with moving. It made for a rather uncomfortable moment later when she had some repairs to do in her own flat and asked if she could borrow my electric drill."

 

Harry bit back a laugh. "What did you tell her?"

 

"I finally had to resort to some macho no-woman-touches-my-tools posturing. I've never felt more ridiculous in my life, but at least she bought it."

 

Grinning at this, Harry wandered over to one of the doors and studied the pictures covering it. He spotted a few people he had met – Gerda, the Russian beauty, Michele, and Ali; Draco was in many of the pictures, usually looking into the camera with an uneasy smile as if he still weren't quite comfortable with Muggle photographs. There was one picture that particularly drew Harry's attention: Draco, his arm around the shoulders of a pretty, dark-haired girl who had more than a passing resemblance to Pansy Parkinson, was standing on what seemed to be a mountaintop, with several other snow-covered peaks visible in the background. Harry remembered his conversation with Ali and came to the conclusion that the girl in the photo had to be the ill-fated Lena.

 

"That wouldn't be the lady in question?"

 

Draco turned his head to see which picture Harry was pointing at and frowned. "As a matter of fact, yes, that's her. How did you know?" Before Harry could answer, he slumped back with a groan. "No, don't tell me – Ali."

 

Harry didn't get to answer because he was interrupted by the sound of Draco's mobile, which had been sitting on the small coffee table next to the sofa, chiming a melody that sounded suspiciously like 'Rule Britannia'.

 

Draco frowned at the display for a moment before answering the call. "_Hallo?_"

 

Up to this point, Harry had never given the concept of foreign languages much thought – that was, he knew on a theoretical level that they existed, and he used bits and pieces for the more archaic spells even though the words had no meaning to him, but he'd hardly ever heard anyone he knew hold a conversation in a language he didn't understand. Now he couldn't help listening with a strange sort of fascination as Draco, seeming completely at ease, spoke German with whoever had just called him.

 

"_Du, ich kann jetzt nicht, ich hab Besuch... warum fragst du dann überhaupt?_" Draco listened for a while, his expression darkening slightly. "_Schnucki, hörst du bitte endlich auf, mein Leben zu organisieren? Ich weiß schon, du meinst es gut, aber schön langsam gehst du mir ein bisserl zu weit!_"

 

When the person on the other end of the line was talking again, Draco's gaze swept over Harry for a moment, and judging from his smirk, Harry was absolutely certain that they were discussing him. "_Wenn er mir auf die Nerven geht, schmeiß ich ihn raus, versprochen. __Servus!_"

 

"Speak of the devil?" Harry asked with mild amusement once Draco had flipped the mobile shut.

 

Draco sighed. "She means well, but the woman's a menace. Now, what did she tell you that made you recognise Lena in a photo?"

 

"She just gave me an overall description, and I couldn't help thinking it sounded as if she were describing Pansy Parkinson. And since the girl here is all but her long-lost twin..."

 

"Yes, pathetic, isn't it?" Draco got up and walked over to Harry, his gaze fixed on the photo. "That was probably one of the most stupid mistakes I've ever made in my life, and that's saying something."

 

Harry was momentarily taken aback; he'd never heard Draco admit to any kind of regrets before. "What went wrong? If you don't mind my asking, that is."

 

Draco sighed. "Potter –"

 

"I thought we were past that."

 

"Fine. _Harry_, then. I don't believe for a second that you're here for any other purpose than to ask me nosy questions, so you can just stop pretending, all right?"

 

It had been a while since Harry had last felt this relieved. _So Ali didn't have her little talk with him yet – thank God for small favours._ "It's not as if I can make you tell me anything."

 

Draco shrugged again. "I honestly don't care whether you know about my exes or not. In hindsight, it was the fact that she seemed so familiar that made me fall for her; she not only looks like Pansy, she even sounds like her when she talks. They're nothing alike, character-wise, and it's not as if I'd ever been madly in love with Pansy in the first place, but we've been friends since we were toddlers. Being with Lena almost felt like – a homecoming of sorts, I suppose." His voice was cold, with just a hint of bitterness underneath. "Like I said, it was a stupid mistake from the very beginning."

 

"Ali said that it ended rather ugly."

 

"Well, Ali still resents her for it, but it was really my fault; I'd given Lena every reason to believe there was more to the relationship than there actually ever was. It all began to fall apart when she made it clear that she wanted some kind of commitment, and when she started dropping hints that she eventually wanted children, I knew that I had to get out. Since I couldn't tell her my real reasons, she took it very personally, and I can't say I blame her."

 

"The real reasons being...?"

 

Draco gave Harry a strange look. "Would you be willing to share the rest of your life with someone who must never know what you really are? Or worse yet, to inflict the same fate upon a child? My family hasn't produced a squib in seven generations, and I have no doubt that even a half-Muggle child of mine would possess magical ability. How could I possibly raise such a child in the Muggle world?"

 

Harry couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. Draco, who seemed so determined to build a future for himself by sheer force of will, basically had just admitted to the fact that he was resigned to spending the rest of his life alone. "Draco, for pity's sake, the wizarding world still exists! It was your decision not to go back, it's not as if you're forced to remain in exile!"

 

Draco held up a hand to interrupt him. "I don't expect you to understand, so please let it go, all right?" He was still looking at the picture. "At least something good came out of it, after all – I'd never have taken up mountain climbing if it hadn't been for her."

 

It was an obvious attempt to change the topic, and Harry went with it since he realised he had no right to do anything else. "She made you try it?"

 

"It was more that she dragged me into it kicking and screaming, but I was quickly convinced once I'd given it a try." For a second, there was a wistful expression on his face. "It's not quite like flying, but it's probably the closest you can get by Muggle means. It's a pity you won't get a chance to see any mountains while you're here – seeing the sun rise over the Alps isn't something you ever forget."

 

"I'll keep it in mind for my next holiday." Harry did his best to keep his tone light; he didn't want to make it sound as if he meant anything more by that.

 

"You do that." Draco finally tore his gaze away from the pictures. "Out of curiosity, is there a reason why you're refusing to sit down?"

 

"Probably the fact that you didn't invite me to?" Harry replied with a smirk.

 

Draco clucked his tongue. "Where are my manners? Do have a seat, then. Would you like something to drink?"

 

"Gladly, as long as it isn't Austrian wine, I've had my share of vinegar for the day."

 

Draco raised an eyebrow. "No stomach for dry wine, have we? I admit it's a bit of an acquired taste, but most people here seem to believe that sweet wine is an abomination in the eyes of the Lord, or something."

 

"I'm sure you'll find some other Austrian peculiarity in your fridge to torture me with."

 

"I usually stick to water, but now that you mention it, there may be some of Mrs Vlk's elder blossom syrup left." Draco disappeared into the adjacent kitchen while Harry gingerly sat down on the creaking sofa.

 

"Who's Mrs Vlk?"

 

"The old woman you saw in the corridor," Draco's voice came through the open door. "She lives next door and regards it as her personal responsibility to save me from starvation. It took me until yesterday to finish the birthday cake she gave me, and my birthday was two weeks ago."

 

"Thank God for Preservation Charms," Harry murmured, which reminded him of the apricots he'd saved. He was still rummaging through the contents of his bag when the sound of a fridge door being opened in the kitchen suddenly caused movement behind one of the half-drawn curtains. A fuzzy, black-and-white cat jumped down from the windowsill and disappeared into the kitchen like a flash.

 

A few seconds later, Draco came back, carrying two glasses filled with a pale yellow liquid and shoving the cat out of the kitchen with his foot. "You've already been fed, you greedy bastard, so get the hell out of here." The cat gave him a disdainful look and jumped onto the sofa, where it sat next to Harry and stared at him.

 

Draco put the glasses on the coffee table and lowered himself into the armchair. "Does he bother you?"

 

"I don't mind cats, although he looks as if he might mind me."

 

"That's just his way of getting acquainted. Give him five minutes, and he'll use you as his personal scratching post."

 

Harry tentatively reached out to scratch the cat behind the ears; it immediately curled up next to him and began to purr. "Had him for long?"

 

"Since I moved in here. He used to belong to Mrs Vlk; she had him for more than ten years, but then her asthma started acting up, so she couldn't keep him around any longer. When I moved in next door, she asked me if I'd take him in because it's hard to completely relocate an old cat, and she didn't want to have him put to sleep. I've always liked cats, so I agreed, although I had no idea that me adopting Max would lead to her practically adopting me."

 

Harry couldn't help grinning at this. "That's positively sweet. Do you also rescue baby birds that have fallen out of their nests?"

 

"Of course," Draco deadpanned, "but only to use them as potion ingredients because I brew poison for a hobby. Some of it is in your glass, by the way, so you're lucky that you obviously aren't planning to touch it."

 

Making a face, Harry reached for the glass and took a sip. "Happy now?"

 

"Ecstatic." Draco pointed at the paper bag that Harry had placed on the table. "Brought your own antidote?"

 

"What? Oh, no, I got these from the waitress at the place in Spitz you recommended, and I thought you might like some."

 

Draco's face lit up. "Ohh, apricots? I thought there wouldn't be any this year!" There was an almost childlike glee in his eyes when he reached for the bag. "So you met Gothic Sandra? I always take my American groups to that particular _Heurigen_ to let her remind them that they didn't step onto the 'Sound of Music' set when they crossed the Austrian border."

 

"She didn't introduce herself, but unless all waitresses there dress like that, it must have been…"

 

Harry forgot what he'd been about to say because he'd made the mistake to look at Draco, who'd just bitten into one of the apricots and was now licking the juice off his fingers. Harry quickly averted his eyes, but it was too late because Draco had already noticed him staring.

 

"What's the matter?"

 

Harry took a deep breath._ The bastard is doing it on purpose!_ "I believe this is the point where Ali would start talking about public indecency."

 

Draco, clearly unimpressed, reached for another apricot. "Since this is my flat, it would be private indecency at the most, wouldn't it?"

 

There was something decidedly suggestive in his tone that threw Harry for a moment. Was it just his wishful thinking, or was Draco actually _flirting_ with him? His uncertainty made his next words come out harsher than he'd intended. "I don't remember you eating like this back at school. Did you start your working career as a rent boy or something like that?"

 

He'd intended it as a joke, but Draco's face froze into an expression of icy resentment. "I'll thank you not to make fun of my past predicaments."

 

Harry stared at him, feeling as if he'd just been hit over the head. "Draco, I... God, look, I'm sorry –"

 

Draco kept glowering at him through narrowed eyelids for a moment before he burst out laughing. "And you're the most gullible idiot I've ever met." He was laughing so hard that he almost choked on the last piece of apricot and had to take a sip from his glass before he could continue. "I can't believe you fell for that!"

 

"Hey, how was I to know?" Harry was aware that he was blushing, but there was nothing he could do about it. "It's not as if you've told me much about what happened to you after you left Britain!"

 

"I was already wondering when you'd begin with the interrogation." Draco still had tears of laughter in his eyes, but now he was growing serious again. "Fine, I see no harm in telling you – but only on two conditions."

 

"I'd have expected no less from a Slytherin. Let me guess: you don't want me to tell anyone back home about you."

 

"Very good. The other condition is that I get to ask a few questions in return, and that you will answer them this time."

 

This gave Harry pause, but finally, his curiosity won out. He'd managed to answer Rita Skeeter's questions without really saying anything for years now, so he was reasonably confident that Draco wouldn't get anything out of him that he didn't want him to know. "All right."

 

"Okay, then. I left Britain immediately after... after leaving Hogwarts with Snape. I'd expected him to hand me over to the Dark Lord, but he delivered me to my mother's doorstep instead. It turned out that my mother had been preparing for this eventuality ever since I had taken the Mark after my father's imprisonment. She knew that if I ever had to flee the country, I'd be on the run from both sides, and that there would be no safety among wizards for me. I have no idea how she made the necessary contacts, but she managed to get the documents that I'd need to hide in the Muggle world. We first went to France, where some distant relatives from my father's side took us in, but I couldn't stay there because the Dark Lord could still get to me through the Mark whenever he wanted."

 

Harry had been listening with growing astonishment. "You _were_ Marked after all? But where's–"

 

"Why don't I have it anymore?" Draco rubbed the inside of his left forearm as if the mention of Voldemort's Mark had triggered some lingering pain where it supposedly once had been. "I got rid of it after the Dark Lord's fall."

 

"How? Some of the remaining Death Eaters tried that after Voldemort's death, but no one ever found a spell to remove it!"

 

Draco smiled, but there was no humour in it. "There _is_ no magical way to remove it – but there's always plastic surgery."

 

Harry couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. "You went to a Muggle doctor to have the Dark Mark removed?"

 

"Ironic, isn't it? To be honest, it wasn't my idea. I told everyone here that it was a tattoo which I'd got thanks to some ill-judged impulse when I was a teenager –"

 

"- which wasn't even that far off the mark, I suppose," Harry couldn't help murmuring. Draco ignored him.

 

"Ali hated it; she said it was tacky and ugly and pestered me to get rid of it. Finally, she dragged me to a friend of her family who's a plastic surgeon – I'd never have been able to afford the procedure, but she insisted on paying for it as a Christmas gift. I still suspect that she did it for the sake of her parents, who were unhappy enough with our relationship to begin with."

 

"Why's that?"

 

"Well, she comes from a rather upper-class family, and I suppose they considered a penniless foreigner with a questionable background a bit of a _mésalliance_."

 

Harry did his best to keep a straight face, but he didn't quite manage it. "Just imagine that."

 

Draco shrugged. "I can't say I blame them; I'd probably have reacted in the same way if I'd been in their position. Anyway, the doctor first tried laser, which didn't work – he couldn't quite believe it and kept asking me what kind of colour had been used, so I had to make up a story how I'd been totally smashed at the time and didn't remember a thing. Finally he had to cut it out and repair the damage with skin grafts. He did a great job, though; the scars are barely visible, and he told me they'll fade completely over time."

 

He held up his left arm, and Harry leaned closer; now that he knew what to look for, he saw the faint red lines on the pale skin. He also couldn't help noticing that the fine hair on Draco's arm was completely colourless, which reminded him of his musings on the subject from the night before. He quickly backed off before his thoughts wandered further in that direction. "So you came to Vienna because of the Mark?"

 

"My choices were rather limited – there aren't many places in Europe which are totally devoid of magic. I had a German tutor when I was a child since my father wanted to send me to Durmstrang, so I finally decided to go to Vienna."

 

Harry frowned at this. "They speak German at Durmstrang?"

 

Draco merely rolled his eyes. "Harry, your level of ignorance about both the magical _and_ the Muggle world is nothing short of astounding. Durmstrang is the biggest magical school in Central Europe, and its students come from at least a dozen different countries. Therefore, classes are held in German and Russian, and every student needs to speak at least one of these languages."

 

Now it was Harry's turn to shrug. "Okay. So Vienna it was – but why didn't your mother come with you?"

 

Draco looked down at his hands, which he'd folded in his lap. "I asked her to, but she wanted to remain in contact with wizarding Britain in case she'd hear from my father; she hoped she'd get to him before the Dark Lord did if he got out of Azkaban somehow. She couldn't have done that from Vienna, so she stayed in France."

 

Harry swallowed; he suddenly had a very bad feeling about this. "Where's your mother now?"

 

"My mother is dead." Draco's voice was dispassionate, as if he were talking about someone he barely knew. "She was killed in France less than two months after I'd left. I have no idea what happened or who did it, and it really doesn't make any difference now." He ran his fingers through a strand of his hair. "That's the reason these are still black – my mother wanted to make sure I wouldn't be recognised among wizards, so she used a spell on me that only she could remove." Only now did he look at Harry, who was about to speak up when Draco cut him off. "If you say 'I'm sorry' again, then, so help me God, I'm going to hit you."

 

Harry held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "All I was going to say is that I think it suits you. The hair colour, I mean."

 

Draco gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I've got used to it, now that I finally have enough privacy to magically get rid of facial hair. Before, it was a real nuisance." He threw Harry a quizzical look. "How can you dark-haired blokes stand it? No matter how carefully you shave, by early afternoon you always look as if your face were dirty!"

 

Harry self-consciously rubbed his chin where, sure enough, he felt the familiar scratch of stubble. "It has never really bothered me. I must admit I have a hard time imagining you with a five o'clock shadow, though."

 

Draco made a face. "And you'll never get to see it if I can help it. Where was I?"

 

"You were talking about how you came to Vienna."

 

"Right. So here I was with my Muggle papers, a little money, and no clue about the Muggle world. The first months were – well, let's just say they're a part of my past I don't like to dwell on. At least I had an EU passport and was therefore allowed to work, so I did all kinds of odd jobs, although –" he glanced at Harry with wry amusement, "- not _quite_ as odd as the one you thought me capable of. I found a place to stay in a flat that I shared with several university students, and it was mostly from them that I learned how to function among Muggles. I also realised that I would need some kind of training if I ever wanted a better job, so I finally went to a job centre where they made a few suggestions, and the tour guiding programme was among them. You even get a bit of financial aid for this kind of education, which was just as well because I wouldn't have been able to afford it otherwise, no matter how much I worked on the side. It turned out that the training programme is very popular among foreigners – many of my classmates had just moved to Vienna too and had even bigger problems with the language than I had, so I didn't stand out so much, which helped a lot. I made a few friends there, Gerda and Ali among them; by the time the training was over, I felt that I finally had my feet on the ground."

 

"How..." Harry paused for a moment, carefully trying to choose the right words. "Don't get me wrong, but how did you manage to – to live with Muggles? I don't mean the technical aspects, but rather... you know, given your attitude back at school, I'm really surprised how easily you seem to have made friends in the Muggle world."

 

Draco reached for his glass and took a sip. "First of all," he said while he put it down again, "there was nothing easy about anything I just told you. Second, what did you expect me to do? Spend the rest of my life in total isolation?" Only now did he look at Harry. "My attitude towards Muggles hasn't changed very much. I've always been convinced that their growing influence in the wizarding world would finally ruin our way of life, and that's exactly what's happening in Britain right now." Harry was about to protest, but Draco kept talking. "This here, however, is their world, which never had been of any interest to me before, but since I had no other place left to go, I had to learn how to live with them. They're not my kind, and I'll never be one of them, but they're all I have."

 

Deep down, Harry felt that he should be appalled by what he was hearing, but he realised that he couldn't quite manage it. He tried to imagine what it would mean for him if he suddenly found himself stuck in the Muggle world, surrounded by people who could never understand his true nature, and he had to admit that even he, who had grown up among Muggles, was horrified by the idea of spending the rest of his life stranded in their world.

 

"Is there no one from your past you're still in contact with, though? What of all the other Slytherin students who disappeared when the war began?"

 

Draco's eyes narrowed. "You're not after any of them, are you?"

 

Harry shook his head. "You know about the Ministry pardon. No offence, Draco, but if it applies to you, it certainly applies to your classmates who have nothing but their family affiliations speaking against them."

 

"Does that mean your side hasn't located any of them?"

 

"It's not as if we had reason to look for them, remember? I heard once that Zabini is in Italy, but that's about it."

 

Draco nodded. "Sicily, to be exact; he still writes me from time to time. Nott went to the US; last I heard, he was teaching at the Salem institute. Goyle is in Moscow, working in his uncle's business, but since he's unable to figure out the Muggle postal system, I haven't heard from him for a few years now."

 

"What about Crabbe?"

 

Draco kept looking straight ahead. "He didn't make it." He took another sip from his glass before he continued. "The only one I get to see on a semi-regular basis is Pansy, since she lives in Prague with her husband. Besides, Snape writes three or four times a year, so I have at least some idea about what's going on in wizarding Britain."

 

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his feet at the ankles; as if this had been some kind of signal, Max the cat got up from his place next to Harry and wandered over to Draco, where he curled up in his lap. "Am I done answering questions now, or was there anything else you wanted to know?"

 

His tone was light, but Harry remained serious. "To be honest, you told me a lot more than I ever expected you to."

 

Draco sighed softly; he kept his eyes on the cat in his lap when he answered. "I admit it's – refreshing, you could say, to be able to talk about all the things I can't mention in front of Muggles. Whenever I speak to my Muggle friends, I have to be constantly on my guard to make sure I don't slip up in any way. I'm used to it by now, but still, it's nice not to self-censor everything I say for a change."

 

Harry remembered his conversation with Ali in the car and wondered whether he should tip Draco off that Muggles were somewhat more perceptive than he obviously gave them credit for. "You never talk about your past with any of them?"

 

"Only in the most general way I can manage, but never in detail – it's just too hard to predict what exactly might seem odd to a Muggle. Take Ali, for example: the only time I let on anything about my family, she almost gave me a heart attack."

 

"How so?"

 

"We were talking about names because she keeps complaining about hers, and when I pointed out that my name wasn't exactly common either, she asked me if there were any other weird names in my family. I didn't see any danger in telling her that my grandfather's name had been Abraxas – but when I did, she started giggling and asked, 'Was your grandmother a witch?' I think I needn't tell you how _that_ went over."

 

Harry frowned. "Why on earth would she ask that?"

 

Draco smiled ruefully. "Just my luck. Turns out there's a popular German children's book called 'The Little Witch', and the witch in question has a talking pet raven named Abraxas. I think it goes without saying that I never mentioned my family to her after that."

 

"Fair enough. But what about Pansy? You said you see her from time to time."

 

Draco sighed softly. "Pansy has her own problems, she really doesn't need to hear everything about mine too." When he saw Harry's questioning look, he added, "I try to see her whenever I'm doing a tour to Prague, which is about once a month, but we always have to meet in the Muggle part of the city since I'm not exactly welcome in the wizarding community of Prague. She has never said so, but I suspect she has to meet me behind her husband's back; he'd probably give her a lot of grief if he knew that she's still friends with a former Death Eater." His expression had been serious, but now he smirked at Harry when he added, "Still, I suppose that thanks to you, I'll have a lot to tell her tomorrow."

 

Harry froze. "You're going to Prague tomorrow?"

 

Draco made a face. "Two day-trip with a bus full of German managers. I can hardly wait."

 

"Oh." Harry couldn't think of anything else to say to that. "Well, then you'd better ask me your questions now, since you won't get another chance after today."

 

"When are you leaving?"

 

"Day after tomorrow."

 

If this information had any impact on Draco, he certainly didn't show it. "There's just this one thing I wanted to ask you the whole time: what the hell are you doing here?"

 

This wasn't what Harry had been expecting. "What's that supposed to mean? I'm on holiday here, as you should have noticed by now."

 

"Oh, _please_. No sensible wizard even comes near a Dead Spot if he can help it, and you go on holiday in the biggest one in Europe just because you felt like it? I hope you don't really expect me to believe that."

 

"Dead Spot?"

 

Draco shook his head. "Did you ever pay attention in History of Magic? Dead Spots are places where, like in Vienna, no one has done any magic for several centuries – to such an extent that there is nothing left for a wizard to work with. They cause a constant drain on a magical person's innate magic, and if you're not careful, they can suck you completely dry and eventually leave you powerless. That's why I came here, after all – like you said, the Dark Lord himself wouldn't have been able to throw a hex here, you can't Apparate, and even owls can't find you. It's perfect if you have to hide from the wizarding world, but it's usually not a place where a wizard would want to spend any length of time."

 

When Harry didn't answer immediately, he added, "You _are_ hiding here, aren't you."

 

Harry took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Let's rather say that I needed a break."

 

"Did you get tired of the fawning admirers?" From Draco's tone, Harry couldn't really tell whether he was mocking him or not.

 

"It was more than that, I'm afraid. You see... during all these years, before the war and during, I knew that my main purpose – hell, my _only_ purpose was to overcome Voldemort. I was the only one who could kill him, and that's what I had to focus on, for the sake of my friends, the Order, and basically the whole wizarding world. It was daunting, and there were times when I was sure I would never be able to do it, but I always knew that this was the goal I was fighting for. Then I killed Voldemort, and it should have been over, but in fact, the worst part of the war had only just begun. I lost more friends and allies during the year after Voldemort's death than during all the years before, and I have never felt so helpless before – I'd done my part, and it still hadn't been enough. I felt like I had let down everyone who ever had trusted me to save them, everyone who had believed that I would be able to put an end to it all."

 

"You did put an end to it all eventually though, didn't you?" Draco pointed out. "To the best of my knowledge, there have been no more Death Eater attacks since Bellatrix Lestrange was arrested two years ago."

 

"Yes, but that wasn't my doing! I mean, I was still fighting, together with the Aurors and the Order, but even though they all treated me like their leader, it was mostly Kingsley Shacklebolt who did all the planning. I was hardly more than a figurehead." Harry took a deep breath and tried to steady his voice. "Then, after everything was finally over, everybody acted as if I'd single-handedly saved the world. I alone was the celebrated hero, the one whose picture was in all the newspapers every day..."

 

"Yes, I can imagine how terrible that must have been for you." Draco's voice was dripping with sarcasm.

 

Harry shot him a dark look. "Do you want to hear this or not?"

 

Draco held up his hand. "Fine, go on."

 

"They offered me a rank in the Auror Corps that I didn't deserve – actually, I didn't deserve _any_ rank since I'd never gone through Auror training. But I took it because I didn't know what else I should do with my life. I had never given the question what I wanted to do after the end of the war much thought, mostly because deep down, I'd always been convinced that I wouldn't live to see it anyway."

 

"Funny, that," Draco said dryly, "before the war, I was totally convinced that I'd come out on top, and look where I am now."

 

Harry sighed. "Draco, I realise that my current problems may not seem that big to you in comparison to what you have to deal with. Still, I..."

 

"I wasn't implying that," Draco interrupted him, "and to be honest, I don't envy you in the slightest. At least I'm in charge of my own life, while you probably have everyone from the Ministry to the Daily Prophet trying to use you for their own ends."

 

Harry stared at him. "Do you really mean that?"

 

Draco held his gaze levelly. "I wouldn't have said it if I didn't mean it. Was that the reason you had to hide in the only place where the wizarding world would leave you alone for a week?"

 

"Pretty much, yes. I just felt I had no life left to live for myself – every word I say, everything I do is treated like a matter of public importance, even though I haven't done anything that was in any way important to the public since the war ended. Everybody else around me gets on with their lives, but I'm completely stuck. That's why I decided to come here when Shacklebolt and Arthur Weasley suggested that I take some time off – I wanted a break from the attention, the expectations I can't fulfil, from everything."

 

"From magic, too?"

 

"That's what I thought, at least." Harry shook his head. "I mean, I grew up among Muggles, I spent my summers without magic every year until I came of age, so I really didn't expect that it might pose a problem for me. When I stood in that crypt on my first day here, I could practically feel the magic dying in this place centuries ago, and it was almost liberating for a while. It didn't last, though – I only noticed today, in the Wachau valley, how much I'd begun to miss magic already during the few days I've spent here."

 

There was a strange smile on Draco's lips when he answered. "That's because whatever you do, you can't run from being a wizard. Magic is a part of you; that's why a place like this, where people have completely given up on magic, is such a hostile environment for someone like you and me. It's fine for Muggles – like blind people would have no problem living in constant darkness, but anyone who has the ability to see would never stop missing the light."

 

Harry couldn't help feeling that this was something Draco had told himself many times over. "Is that why you sat by the river, spinning pebbles in the air?"

 

"When I came here, I had two choices: either give up on my magic, let the draining effect take its toll on me until there was nothing left, or hang on to it with all my might. I chose the latter – I had to focus on my own, innate magical power, to train and strengthen it as best I could to learn how to withstand the effect this place has. It wasn't easy, but if I hadn't done it, I'd have given up a part of who I am."

 

Harry slowly shook his head, his eyes never leaving Draco's. "How do you do it, Draco? From everything you've told me, every day you spent here has been an uphill battle, and no matter what you've achieved for yourself, it can never replace what you've lost. How do you keep going?"

 

When Draco answered, there was an expression in his eyes that Harry couldn't read. "I don't dwell on things that just aren't possible no matter how much I might want them to be."

 

Letting out a breath he had been holding without even realising it, Harry closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat; he suddenly felt deathly tired.

 

He only noticed that he'd dozed off when he was woken by the feeling of a warm, rough tongue licking his nose.


	6. June 20th, 2005

** _June 20th, 2005_ **

 

 

Harry sat up with a startled yelp, which was followed by a thud as Max the cat, who'd been sitting on Harry's chest, slid off the couch and hit the floor. He threw Harry a look of deepest loathing and stalked off while Harry furiously rubbed his nose. It took him a moment  to remember where he was; only then did it register on him that the room was bathed in the brilliant light of the early morning sun, which meant that he'd obviously spent the night on Draco's sofa.

 

As if on cue, the door to what turned out to be the bathroom opened, and Harry heard Draco's amused voice asking, "Finally back among the living?"

 

The answer Harry had been about to give died somewhere between his brain and his mouth when he turned his head to look at Draco.

 

He'd got one burning question answered, at least: Draco's hair definitely _was_ black all over.

 

Draco was leaning against the doorframe, wearing nothing but a pair of loosely fitting pyjama bottoms. His chest was smooth, but the trail leading down from his navel to the waistband of his pyjamas was as black as the hair on his head, although it looked much finer and fuzzier than any kind of body hair Harry had ever seen. Harry was aware that he was staring, but he found that he couldn't help it; somewhere at the back of his brain, his rational mind protested that the sight of black hair against milk-white skin _really_ had no business being that erotic, but his traitorous body firmly insisted that it still was.

 

Draco raised an eyebrow when he got no reply; Harry could only hope that he would mistake his clear befuddlement for the effects of having been startled awake. "Slept well?"

 

"You could have woken me." Harry hadn't meant to sound snappish, but it was the best he could manage given how much he was struggling not to let Draco notice the effect he had on him.

 

"I tried, but you sleep like the dead. You'd better get up now, though; I have to leave in twenty minutes."

 

"Right." Harry self-consciously ran his hands through his hair, although he was aware that he probably just made it stick up more. Draco returned to the bathroom and closed the door while Harry got up from the couch and tried to straighten his rumpled clothes. It was a hopeless cause; finally he got his wand from his bag and cast a few charms to make himself at least somewhat presentable again.

 

Any lingering excitement from the sight Draco had presented him with dissipated with the sobering realisation that this was really it – Draco was leaving in a quarter of an hour, and he wouldn't be back before Harry had left the city. "Don't look at me like that," he said to Max, who was sitting on the windowsill and eyed him with a guarded expression, "you've got the couch to yourself again now."

 

When Draco re-emerged from the bathroom, he was fully clothed. "Oh, look who's upright. Listen, I don't want to throw you out, but –"

 

"No, I really should be going." Harry shouldered his bag and went to find his trainers which he'd toed off in the hall the night before. Draco followed him and unlocked the entrance door while Harry put on his shoes; he was still standing there when Harry straightened, so that Harry had to walk right past him if he wanted to leave the flat. There was hardly room enough for two people in the hall, and when Harry stepped up to the door, Draco was suddenly standing so close to him that he could almost feel his body heat against his own skin.

 

He was looking straight into Harry's eyes with a strange expression on his face, and Harry's heart skipped a beat. Everything that had seemed completely out of reach until now was _here_ all of a sudden – waiting for him to reach out and take it. His eyes were drawn to Draco's lips, and he just _knew_ without the shadow of a doubt that any moment now, they were going to kiss him. Any moment –

 

Then Draco took a step back, and the spell was broken. His expression didn't change, but it seemed to Harry as if a veil had descended over his eyes, hiding everything he might be thinking or feeling from view.

 

"Have a safe trip home."

 

There was something in Draco's voice that sounded almost like regret, but Harry didn't allow himself to dwell on it. The message couldn't have been clearer, and it was time to let go of things that couldn't be and move on. He took a deep breath, desperately hoping that he'd be able to keep is voice even.

 

"I never thought I'd say this, Draco, but it has been good to see you again."

 

For a moment, Draco stared at the hand that Harry held out towards him, and Harry couldn't help remembering that other time on the train that seemed to have happened a lifetime ago. Then Draco took his hand, his grasp warm and firm, and smiled in a way that somehow reminded Harry of the eleven-year-old boy he'd been then.

 

"It's been good to see you too, Harry."

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

By the time Harry got back to his hotel room, his mind was a mess of conflicting thoughts and emotions, while his body ached with a frantic, burning need that was unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. He had his jeans open and his hand down his pants the moment the door fell shut behind him; he curled up on the bed, squeezed his eyes shut and fisted his cock with fast, hard strokes, desperate to relieve some of the painful tension that made him feel as if his sinews were going to snap any moment. He allowed himself every fantasy that came to mind, anything that would ease the hollow feeling of yearning in the pit of his belly.

 

It didn't help, though, as he somehow had known it wouldn't. Although he came so hard that he saw little pinpoints of lights dancing behind his closed eyelids, the hollowness remained; this just wasn't something his own hands could take care of, even if he wanked himself raw over it.

 

He'd slept quite well that night, but he still felt completely exhausted. He couldn't even bring himself to undress or get under the blanket, so he stayed where he was, curled up in a ball on top of the covers, ignoring the sticky mess that was slowly drying on his hands and stomach. When he finally dozed off, his dreams took him back to the war, and to the time before, mocking him with the remnants of horrors he'd thought he'd long put past him. He woke with a start towards noon to the image of Draco on the bathroom floor, covered in blood, although it was Draco as he'd seen him today, his hair long and black and his shoulders broader than they'd been back then.

 

Harry's heart was racing, and for a moment, he looked around in bewilderment without remembering where he was and what had happened. When he finally was able to focus on the here and now, he flopped back on the bed with a sigh, the image of his dream still vivid in his mind. He hadn't given it any thought at the time, but now he remembered that there had been no scar on Draco's chest, no disfiguring blemish to indicate that Harry had almost killed him once. For a fleeting second, Harry almost wished that it were different; that he _had_ left a mark on Draco's body that would somehow make sure the memory of him remained an ever-present part of Draco's life.

 

Then he realised what he'd just been thinking and jumped to his feet, thoroughly disgusted with himself. This had gone far enough; it was about time he pulled himself together.

 

After a long, hot shower and a change of clothes, Harry was beginning to feel human again. The hollow feeling of emptiness remained, but there was nothing to be done about that. It was barely past noon, and he'd be damned if he'd lock himself in his hotel room to lick his wounds for the rest of his holiday. He wasn't in the mood for anything cultural, though; after a while of leafing through Hermione's guide book, which he hadn't touched for several days, Harry finally decided to go to the zoo. He'd always liked zoos ever since he'd been a child; perhaps it would take his mind off things.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

His plan to avoid any culture-related activities proved to be impossible to carry out, though, because the zoo was situated in the park of the imperial summer palace of Schönbrunn. Trust the Viennese, Harry thought with a hint of sarcasm while he made his way through the maze of clipped trees, marble fountains and ornate flowerbeds, to have a _baroque_ zoo – allegedly the oldest in the world, if the guide book was to be trusted.

 

Still, Harry had to admit that the baroque layout of the zoo was pretty to look at – most of the actual cages seemed modern, but they fit nicely into what still gave the impression of an imperial park. Despite the beautiful weather, there weren't too many visitors, leaving Harry at liberty to wander around wherever he pleased without getting jostled.

 

For a while, he managed to distract himself quite well. Many of the animals were dozing in the warmth of the early afternoon sun, but there were still plenty that seemed willing to put on a show. Harry spent an eventful half hour watching a band of lemurs that lived on a small island in a pond get into a food fight that eventually led to the merkats on the same island snatching most of the stuff the lemurs were fighting over. The monkey house proved to be equally entertaining since the monkeys were let loose inside, allowing the visitors to get really close to them. The stench was overpowering, though, which soon caused Harry to go back in the open and resume his aimless wandering.

 

He was standing outside an enclosure where a couple of elephants were busy tearing the bark off a tree trunk when he was startled violently by the howl of a wolf in the distance. A second howl answered, then a third; after a moment of looking around, Harry realised that what he'd taken for a forest outside the zoo was actually the enclosure where the wolves were kept. He took a calming breath, chiding himself for overreacting so stupidly. These were perfectly normal wolves, after all, not the murderous beasts that had haunted Voldemort's enemies with their howls at night during the war.

 

Determined not to let his apprehension get the better of him, Harry made his way towards the wolf enclosure. It was a huge, fenced-off terrain on the slope of a forest-covered hill; although he could still hear the wolves howl in the distance, he barely got to see a glimpse of them here and there between the trees. Obviously, they stayed clear of humans – which was, Harry reminded himself, just how wolves were supposed to behave.

 

Banishing any lingering memories of Fenrir Greyback, Harry decided to go back the way he'd come when he noticed an aviary right next to the wolves' enclosure. Sitting on a dead tree inside and eyeing him disdainfully was a snowy owl.

 

Harry felt his throat close up and had to blink a few times to keep his eyes from misting over. The bird didn't look exactly like Hedwig, but there was enough resemblance to remind him how much he still missed her. She'd disappeared during the last year of the war while delivering a letter to Remus; Harry had never found out what had happened to her. He'd eventually got another owl, a nice brown barn owl named Feeps, but it wasn't the same.

 

He couldn't help thinking that it was no life for an owl to remain locked in a cage like this all the time, although that was probably true for the other animals in the zoo as well. Harry made his way out of the forest in a decidedly darker mood than he'd been before; he felt as if the magical world had managed to catch up with him yet again.

 

_You can't run from being a wizard._ Great, now he'd got Draco's voice back in his mind, too.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

The reptile house was a bit of a disappointment; it was smaller than Harry had expected in a zoo of this size, and most of the animals were so well hidden between leaves and twigs in their terrariums that they were barely visible. He had been tempted to try talking to the snakes here, mostly out of curiosity whether he'd be able to speak Parseltongue in these surroundings. The only boa he could spot was fast asleep, though; all the other snakes he saw were poisonous, and although he contemplated addressing the cobra that cast him icy glances through the thick glass, he decided against it; he'd found out during the war that poisonous snakes were really unpleasant conversationalists.

 

Right across from the snakes, another terrarium caught Harry's eye. A brown iguana, half as long as his arm, had scrambled up to the glass and seemed to be staring straight in his direction. His curiosity piqued, Harry walked over and crouched next to the terrarium so that his face was level with the animal. Iguanas were lizards too, weren't they?

 

After a quick glance around to make sure no one would overhear him, Harry leaned closer to the glass and concentrated. He'd done some training to learn how to control his ability to speak Parseltongue during the war; he could now do it consciously, even though the result still sounded like normal English to him. Feeling a bit silly, he finally settled on saying, "_Hello, little one, how are you doing?_"

 

The iguana cocked its head, its eyes focusing on Harry as if it were listening to him, but it didn't answer. Harry tried again, but the iguana only kept staring. He seemed to have done the lizard equivalent of addressing it in Chinese – something it would recognise as a language, but not understand.

 

With a shrug, Harry straightened and stepped back from the terrarium. The iguana gave him one final look and wandered away; it probably wouldn't have had anything interesting to say anyway. Snakes, at least, rarely did; there was little that really mattered to them besides hunting and sleeping.

 

When he left the room, Harry could have sworn he heard a cold voice from the cobra terrarium say, "_I had no idea there were legged ones who could talk._"

 

Smiling to himself, he made his way outside again; it seemed a shame to waste the glorious summer afternoon in the semi-darkness and stuffy air of the reptile house.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

Two hours later, it was dawning on Harry how huge the Schönbrunn zoo really was. By this time, his feet were beginning to complain, and the growling of his stomach reminded him that the slice of takeaway pizza he'd had for lunch on the way to the zoo hadn't been much of a meal. He stopped at one of the numerous food stands to get a hamburger with chips in a greasy paper bag and sat down on an inviting bench in the shade of a huge chestnut tree to eat.

 

He was soon surrounded by a whole flock of sparrows that fought over every crumb he dropped; after a while, he also noticed a squirrel climbing down from the tree and approaching him cautiously. He supposed the wild animals here in the zoo were probably used to getting fed by the visitors and therefore not particularly shy.

 

"I'm afraid I don't have anything for you," he said to the squirrel, "I don't think chips are good for you. Go find a nut or something!"

 

The squirrel, however, remained where it was, less than two feet away from him, and calmly began grooming its bushy tail. Harry looked around; he was surrounded by people who walked around between the cages and enclosures, stopping here and there to take a closer look, but no one seemed to pay the squirrel any attention.

 

"It's funny, isn't it – if you were in a cage, everyone would be staring at you, but out here, no one gives a damn."

 

The squirrel paused for a moment as if it were contemplating the remark; Harry couldn't help thinking that it was time he stopped talking to animals before he went completely barmy. Then it went back to grooming its tail, paying no further attention to him. Harry finished his food and decided to rest here on the bench a little bit longer; it wasn't as if he was in a hurry to go anywhere.

 

Predictably, now that he had nothing else to think about, his thoughts kept wandering back to the previous night. Harry still wasn't sure what to make of Draco's behaviour; he'd seemed pleased enough to see Harry again at first, and now that Harry thought about it, he was convinced that Draco _had_ been flirting with him during the early stages of their conversation. The longer they'd talked, though, the more he'd drawn back, as if he'd suddenly remembered that it was a bad idea to let Harry get too close. Or had it been the fact that Harry had made him talk about his past, which must have brought back a lot of unpleasant memories?

 

Harry quickly discarded this idea. It wasn't as if he'd forced Draco to talk about it; on the contrary, Draco had seemed almost eager to discuss everything he'd been through with someone who knew his true background. Still, had Harry's presence managed to remind him just more vividly of everything he'd lost?

 

Harry recalled what Draco had said about living with Muggles and tried to match up the casual disdain he had expressed with the fact that photos of his Muggle friends covered half his flat. Even with everything Draco had told him, Harry still couldn't quite believe how far Draco had come in the Muggle world, and he had to admit that Draco was well entitled to the pride he took in his accomplishments. He thought about the way Draco had kept staring ahead when he'd talked about his mother, and how he'd said that he didn't want to burden Pansy with his problems. Harry remembered the spoiled brat Draco had been during their time at school and marvelled at the fact that a life that must have been both difficult and humiliating hadn't managed to break him, but seemed to have brought out a strength of character that Draco probably hadn't even known he possessed before.

 

The longer Harry pondered Draco's story, the more he felt something that he'd never have expected to feel for Draco Malfoy: respect.

 

At this point, the rational part of this brain shrieked an alarmed warning. It was one thing to be attracted to Draco, even to the point where he began to find his character somewhat tolerable, but the things that had gone through his mind now were leading him into very dangerous territory. It had been stupid enough to begin lusting after Draco when he knew nothing could come out of it; it would be the height of idiocy to fall in love with him.

 

What had Draco said about not dwelling on things that could never be, no matter how much he wanted them to? Harry still wasn't sure whether Draco had said it for his own sake or for Harry's, but it was definitely time to start following his advice.

 

Harry got up from the bench, dumped the greasy paper into the nearest dustbin and resumed his walk through the zoo. There was plenty to see since late afternoon seemed to be the time when most animals got fed. Harry saw a crowd gathered around the huge seal basin, where an oilcloth-clad keeper was throwing pieces of fish for the seals to catch, and stopped to watch. However, he ended up watching the crowd instead of the animals; people laughed and shrieked when water splashed over the rim of the basin, or pointed excitedly so that their companions wouldn't miss it when an animal did something interesting, parents lifted their children up so that they could see, and right in front of Harry, a young woman was filming the spectacle while the man who had his arm around her shoulders gave her directions where to aim the camera.

 

Among the crowd of talking, laughing, pointing people, Harry could see no one else who seemed to be here by themselves, and for just a moment, he felt depressingly lonely. He told himself that he was being ridiculous; he had plenty of friends back home, and he usually was pretty self-sufficient and didn't even like it when people crowded him too much. Hadn't he come to Vienna in the first place just because of that?

 

Still, right now, he couldn't wait for this holiday to be over.

 

** _June 21st, 2005_ **

 

 

It seemed fitting somehow that Harry should end his holiday the way he'd begun it: with a day of aimless wandering through the inner city of Vienna. He had no particular destination in mind; he just followed the winding streets of the first district wherever they took him. Occasionally, he would check with Hermione's guide book when he noticed something that looked vaguely interesting, but most of the time, he was satisfied to keep drifting.

 

It wasn't the best day for a city walk; the weather was hot and oppressively humid. Perhaps, Harry thought, there would be a thunderstorm later in the day – and wouldn't that be fun during his flight home. He had been looking forward to flying the Muggle way for the first time, but he'd quickly found out that being locked up in a cramped metal cabin while he was in the air made him extremely uncomfortable. He preferred being the one to do the steering when he flew, even though it meant getting soaked while passing through the clouds. Still, there was no way to avoid another flight in order to get back home, since Apparating was impossible in and around Vienna. To the best of his knowledge, the nearest international Apparition point was Prague, which was a five-hours train ride away.

 

Yet Harry was determined to make the best of his last day in Vienna; it might be a long time until he got to enjoy this kind of blessed anonymity again. He fleetingly wondered what the papers back home had made of the fact that he'd gone on holiday alone; perhaps the _Prophet_ had run another tearful article about the traumatised war hero who'd had his heart ripped out by the horrors he had lived through. They'd come up with that not long after the end of the war, when their constant rumour-mongering about a possible Mrs Potter-to-be had turned out wrong time and again.

 

Ron and Hermione had been outraged on his behalf, but Harry had been quite pleased with the concept. Ever since, he had quietly encouraged press speculation that he was too damaged for a relationship; so far, it had kept them from starting to speculate about his sexual orientation. He wasn't ashamed of being gay, but he didn't even want to imagine the field day the wizarding press would have with the fact that Harry Potter was into men. For that reason, all his past flings had been Muggles with only one exception, who had been equally keen on keeping quiet about it.

 

Harry wasn't even sure whether Ron and Hermione knew. He had never seen a reason to tell them, although he suspected that they'd both caught on by now – they never asked him any questions about his love life and always managed to distract Mrs Weasley when she began needling him about marrying and having a family of his own. He didn't feel inclined to come out to Molly and Arthur; they'd never said so, but Harry was convinced that they were still secretly hoping he and Ginny would get back together one day. Ginny, however, was the one person he _really_ didn't want to know. He couldn't help fearing that she would take it personally somehow, and knowing Ginny's nasty temper, he'd rather not find himself on the receiving end of it.

 

Better not think about it when he didn't have to. He had one more day without a care in the world, without people relying on him, looking up to him or expecting him to live up to some impossible standard. Today, he was just a nameless face in a crowd of people who wandered the beaten touristy paths of the first district and walked into each other's photographs.

 

Tomorrow, he'd be back at his desk, where he would keep valiantly doing nothing of any consequence for the greater good of wizardkind while everyone patted him on the back and assured him that he basically held the wizarding world together single-handedly.

 

He didn't want this; he never had. The sad thing was that he'd be hard-pressed to say what it was that he _did_ want instead.

 

Or rather, that he would have been hard-pressed to say it until – what, four days ago?

 

This was ridiculous.

 

Chiding himself for letting his thoughts wander into dangerous territory again (as if there hadn't been enough of that last night), Harry began to pay closer attention to the shops he passed by since he still needed to buy souvenirs for the whole Weasley clan. It made for a welcome distraction; an hour later, his bag was considerably heavier and his mood somewhat lighter when he tried to imagine how his goddaughter would like the doll in a dirndl dress and what Arthur would say to the minuscule music box that played the Blue Danube Waltz.

 

He'd also bought a huge package of the infamous _Mozartkugeln_, spherical chocolates filled with nougat and marzipan, which Hermione had requested specifically. She had assured him that they were delicious, yet he couldn't bring himself to try them since she'd also mentioned (with a very un-Hermione-like snigger) that the name meant 'Mozart balls' in translation. Harry supposed it was something of an in-joke among the natives and regretted not having asked Draco about it.

 

Which brought him right back to the one topic he was trying _not_ to think about.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

One thing that Harry had realised during his time in Vienna was that he seemed to have a thing for huge squares. The winding streets of the inner city were nice, but what he liked most about them was the way they sometimes led up to a wide, open area that sported trimmed trees, flowerbeds, or statues. It felt like a breathing space in the hustle and bustle of the city, a place where the sky overhead wasn't blocked out by looming buildings weighing down on him from either side of a narrow street.

 

The square in front of the Imperial Castle was probably the biggest Harry had seen so far in Vienna. A part of it was covered in grass and trees, with park benches placed strategically among them; the rest of the space was taken up by the huge statues of two men on horseback who faced each other over the street that cut across the square. Grateful for the opportunity to rest, Harry settled down on a bench in the shade of a tree and dug out Hermione's book again. It informed him that the _Heldenplatz_, the Heroes Square, was named thusly in remembrance of Austria's two most important military leaders, Archduke Karl of Habsburg and Prince Eugene of Savoy.

 

The first name meant absolutely nothing to Harry; the book told him that the archduke had won a battle against Napoleon (at least that was a name Harry was familiar with, although he didn't know much more about the man than the fact he'd been French), but overall, his military career didn't seem that impressive. Prince Eugene was another matter; the book held almost a page of gushing about his military triumphs and his love of the fine arts, which finally helped Harry remember where he'd heard the name before. So this was the man who had the Belvedere built as his own fairy tale palace and party hall in one, who everyone had held in such high regard that he'd been able to spit in the face of propriety without any repercussions. The book merely mentioned his "unconventional lifestyle", but didn't go into the sort of details Draco had mentioned. Ugly, frail, gay, and into drugs – yet here he was, bigger than life on his prancing horse with the Imperial Castle nothing but a backdrop to his statue, at his feet a plaque dedicated (according to the translation in the guide book) _To the wise counsellor of three emperors_.

 

Harry squinted against the bright sun and tried to make out the prince's face that was barely visible under a huge hat and a long, curly wig. It wore a vaguely smug expression, which probably stood to reason – Harry supposed that he'd look smug too if he'd been able to get away with just a few of the things this man had.

With a sigh, he stuffed the book back into his bag and threw a last glance at the statue. "You were one lucky bastard, mate, do you know that?"

 

Prince Eugene, with his proud pose and his eternally superior expression, seemed to agree.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

By the time Harry returned to the hotel one last time to pick up his luggage, the heat was stifling, and the sky was covered in dark clouds. It was quite obvious by now that a thunderstorm was brewing, and Harry felt a vague sensation of dread at the thought that it might hit right during takeoff. After this flight, he was determined _never_ to fly the Muggle way again.

 

There was a taxi waiting in front of the hotel to take him to the airport. Wien-Schwechat, the Vienna airport, was situated well outside the city, and it was quite a long drive, along green fields and hedges and right across a huge industrial park, until Harry found himself in front of the departure area. The driver, who had been spectacularly grumpy before, became very friendly once Harry had paid him – he probably had given him three times the usual tip, but since he had no further use for his remaining Euros, Harry didn't mind overmuch. The man hauled Harry's suitcase out of the boot and wished him an enjoyable flight in broken English. Harry just smiled and nodded; for more than one reason, "enjoyable" was probably the last thing this flight was going to be.

 

It was just past seven p.m.; his plane was leaving at 9:50, which left him plenty of time to get his bearings in the unfamiliar surroundings of an airport. Once more, Harry found himself reminded that he'd make for a pathetic Muggle by now; he felt like a visitor to an alien culture, not like someone moving through the world he'd grown up in.

 

He managed to check in his suitcase without incident. Before he went through passport control, he stopped by the nearest restroom to change his wand into a pen and store it safely in the breast pocket of his shirt. He hadn't tried such a complex spell since his arrival in Vienna, and although he was used to the draining effect by now, he was still surprised by the effort it took him until the wand was finally transfigured to his satisfaction.

 

He didn't feel like more shopping, so he gave the duty-free area a wide berth. It took him a while to find out where he was supposed to go – the airport was much smaller than Heathrow, but it was still a maze. After some searching, he finally managed to find the correct gate and sat down to wait in a spot that offered a nice view over the runway. The sky outside was completely black by now, and it was a bit alarming to see the bright lights of the airplanes being swallowed up by the dark clouds just a few seconds after takeoff.

 

People were hurrying past without paying any attention to him; in the seat next to him, a young Japanese woman was reading a guide book about London and bookmarking half the pages with brightly coloured post-it notes. Harry watched her for some time while he did his best to look forward to coming home again, but he just couldn't bring himself to muster up any enthusiasm. Yes, it would be nice to spend time with Ron and Hermione again, and he _did_ look forward to giving Bess her present, but still, he couldn't help feeling that it wasn't much of a homecoming that awaited him – mostly it meant an empty, messy flat, a desk piled high with useless paperwork, and a public that wanted their share of the resident hero whenever they felt like it.

 

He caught himself wondering whether Prince Eugene would have put up with this. Somehow, Harry didn't think so; the prince would probably have flipped everyone the bird and gone off to snort some coke – or whatever it was they did instead back then. Opium? He'd have to ask Hermione about it, although he didn't think she knew much about historical Muggle drugs.

 

Pity he couldn't ask Draco any longer.

 

With a groan, Harry buried his head in his hands; the Japanese woman gave him an alarmed look and quickly turned back to her book. Harry didn't look up for a long time; he thought about cages, and a squirrel that had wandered around unnoticed while people were gaping at the animals behind the bars. Draco's mocking sneer surfaced unbidden in his memory; Harry couldn't help feeling that he was being laughed at, although he wasn't quite sure for what reason.

 

"I don't dwell on things that just aren't possible no matter how much I might want them to be."

 

Wait. Had he actually bought that, when it came from a man who had built a life for himself out of nothing, and against impossible odds?

 

How the hell were you supposed to know in advance what was possible anyway?

 

Before he'd even finished the thought, Harry was out of his seat and all but ran back the way he'd come, just when a pleasant female voice from the loudspeaker announced that boarding for the British Airways flight to London would begin in a few minutes.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

During the most critical phases of the war, Harry had developed the ability to stop thinking about what he was doing and function on autopilot. It had been a survival skill then, because if he'd taken the time to think, he'd either have been paralysed by fear or crippled by doubts he couldn't afford. He unconsciously fell back on that technique while he sprinted through the bowels of the airport, passed another passport control and finally found himself in the arrivals lounge. There was a taxi rank right outside, and for just one heart-stopping moment, Harry was convinced that he'd forgotten the name of the street Draco lived in. He had some trouble with the pronunciation when he finally remembered, but since the driver nodded and asked, as if to confirm, "Eighteenth district?", he supposed he'd got it right. He couldn't recall the number, but he was sure he'd recognise the house when he saw it.

 

Thunder was growling in the distance when he got into the car. By the time the lights of the airport had disappeared in the darkness behind him, fat raindrops were hitting the windshield, and the trees beside the road where shaken by the rising storm. Harry didn't pay any attention to the weather; he sat motionless in the backseat of the car, stared out into the darkness and kept his mind carefully blank while the lights of the city drew nearer. The way back felt much shorter to him than the drive to the airport had been; in what seemed like no time at all, the driver stopped at the corner of a street Harry recognised, and he was quite relieved that he'd obviously remembered the address correctly.

 

When he fished for his wallet to pay the driver, he realised that he didn't have any Euros left. The man shook his head when Harry asked whether he took foreign currency, but he quickly changed his mind when Harry handed him the sum he'd asked for in British Pounds instead of Euros. Then Harry was left standing at the street corner in the pouring rain, while the thunder rolled overhead and flashes of lightning split the darkness every few seconds. It was just his luck that he'd arrived smack in the middle of the thunderstorm, but Harry hardly felt the torrential rain. He splashed through the puddles as he made his way along the street that looked quite different in the darkness; when he finally found the house with the brass bell-buttons, he was soaked to the skin.

 

Only now did it occur to him that Draco might not be home yet; he hadn't said when exactly he was coming back from his trip to Prague.

 

It was hard to read the name tags in the faint light of a nearby streetlamp; Harry finally spotted Draco's name when another flash of lightning lit up the darkness for a fraction of a second. With a strange mixture of dread and elation, Harry pressed the bell button, fully prepared to hear nothing but the sound of thunder in reply.

 

Instead, what he heard was Draco's voice over the static crackling of the intercom, "_Was ist jetzt schon wieder?_"

 

It belatedly occurred to Harry that he had absolutely no idea what to tell Draco. "It's me – Harry. Can I come in?"

 

For a moment, there was silence on the other end of the line, and Harry held his breath; then the door clicked open with a buzz, and he entered, his heart in his throat.

 

After some fumbling in the semi-darkness, he found the light switch in the corridor. He still had no clue what he was going to say or do once he was at Draco's door, but he didn't think about it when he ran up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. In a way, he couldn't remember when he'd last been so utterly terrified and felt so incredibly alive at the same time.

 

Draco opened the door before Harry could press the buzzer. He seemed dishevelled as if he'd been asleep moments before. "Harry, what the hell – "

 

He didn't get to finish the question because Harry grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed him.

 

For a second, Draco seemed frozen on the spot. Then he made a strange little sound deep in his throat; his arms came up, and Harry was certain he was going to push him away – but instead, Draco's hands were suddenly in Harry's wet hair, causing little rivulets of water to run downs Harry's neck, and then he was kissing him back.

 

Harry didn't feel his drenched clothes sticking uncomfortably to his skin and the water squelching in his trainers any more; there was nothing of importance but the feeling of Draco's mouth on his, of his hands in Harry's hair, of his body fitting perfectly against Harry's when he pulled him closer. Harry quickly lost his sense of time; he never wanted this kiss to end, he would be happy to stand here in the corridor kissing Draco for the rest of his life...

 

Without warning, Draco broke the kiss at the sound of a door opening. Harry, his mind still reeling, turned his head in the direction of the sound and saw Mrs Vlk, the tiny old neighbour, standing in the open door of her flat with her mouth open and her eyes big as saucers. When she became aware that she'd been noticed, she shrank back and hastily closed the door again.

 

Harry felt a strange urge to burst out laughing at the surrealism of the whole scene, and to his great relief, he saw a sparkle of almost mischievous amusement in Draco's grey eyes as well.

 

Then Draco took his hand and stepped backwards over the threshold of his flat, pulling Harry with him.


	7. June 22nd, 2005

** _June 22nd, 2005_ **

 

 

During the last few days, Harry had come to treasure the groggy first seconds of not-quite-wakefulness, while he was still hanging on to the images and sensations that another vivid dream had left behind, a dream he'd start chiding himself for as soon as he was fully conscious. During those precious seconds before reality kicked in hard, he could almost make himself believe that he hadn't been dreaming, that he would wake up to find that he really was lying next to the man he'd been dreaming about.

 

Yes, it was stupid, and it made the moment when he eventually opened his eyes to find that he was, of course, alone in his bed with his sheets tangled around him and his pyjama bottoms uncomfortably sticky, all the more depressing.

 

Better to put it off for another few seconds, then, while he was still basking in the blissful, satisfied feeling the dream had left behind. This one had been particularly intense – it seemed to him like he still felt Draco's skin against his own, the touch of Draco's hands all over his body. He'd allow himself, for just another precious moment, to imagine that...

 

No. His rational mind was waking up now, reminding him that he was only making matters worse. Time to stop pretending and face reality.

 

Harry opened his eyes and realised that, unsurprisingly, he was alone. What _did_ come as a surprise, however, was that he found himself in an unfamiliar bed, and that he was naked under the covers.

 

After a moment of utter bewilderment, the memories of last night returned – the taxi ride back from the airport, the thunderstorm, kissing Draco in the corridor and then... oh, _then_.

 

His mind reeling, Harry finally allowed himself to believe that he hadn't been dreaming this time. It seemed surreal, impossible – but here he was, and he felt that his brain was only now catching up with everything that had happened ever since he'd stopped thinking rationally the moment he'd run from the airport.

 

"You really came back, stubborn Gryffindor that you are."

 

The bemused voice startled Harry out of his thoughts; Draco was leaning against the doorframe in a green dressing gown, his hair damp and a very visible hickey blooming on his neck. He seemed utterly calm and relaxed, his expression giving nothing away of what he thought about the whole situation.

 

Harry had no idea how Draco expected him to react, so he decided to angle for the same display of nonchalance, even though the sight of the reddish mark on Draco's pale skin did funny things to his nether regions.

 

"Yes, and with my suitcase already checked in and everything. Very Gryffindor indeed."

 

Draco's eyes went wide. "You left your luggage at the airport?"

 

Harry shrugged. "I suppose there will be a way to get it back once I am in London."

 

"Only it won't be in London, you utter moron." Draco was shaking his head in amazement. "The plane can't start if they've got the luggage of a passenger on board who didn't show up, since it might be a bomb or something. Thanks to you, that flight must have been delayed for at least an hour."

 

"Oh." Harry was taken aback for a moment, but then he grinned. "Was worth it, though."

 

Draco seemed hard-pressed not to laugh. "Aren't you ever the selfless hero."

 

"I'm done with being a hero." Harry sat up and carefully rearranged the covers around his waist; it was probably stupid, but he suddenly felt self-conscious about being naked while Draco was looking at him like this. "Good morning, by the way."

 

To his utter surprise, Draco was next to him a second later and pressed a quick, close-mouthed kiss on his lips. He smiled at Harry's stunned expression when he drew back. "Good morning to you, too. And now go clean your teeth if you want me to kiss you properly."

 

There was no questioning that kind of incentive, although Harry felt as if his skin were prickling under the intensity of Draco's gaze when he got out of bed and left the room.

 

The clothes they'd carelessly shed the previous evening were still strewn all over the living room floor. After some searching, Harry found his shirt, still damp from the rain, twisted into a ball under the coffee table and retrieved his transfigured wand from the pocket. With some effort, which probably wasn't so much due to the draining effect as it was due to the fact that he still had trouble thinking clearly, he undid the transfiguration and headed for the bathroom.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

Harry returned to the bedroom half an hour later – he'd taken the time to shower, shave, and cast a few extra Cleaning Charms just in case. Draco had gone back to bed and watched, with his head propped up on his hand, while Harry dropped the towel he'd wrapped around his waist and quickly slipped under the covers.

 

Somehow, things had been much easier while he'd been acting on pure instinct. Now that he'd let himself start to think about the whole situation, Harry realised that he had absolutely no clue what he'd got himself into. Draco had seemed eager enough last night, but now Harry didn't have the faintest idea what was going on behind his calm expression.

 

He'd rarely ever woken up in someone else's bed, but the few times it had happened, the situation had never been this awkward. Things had always been pretty clear then – it had been about sex, nothing else, with no strings attached. Now Harry was not so sure this was true for him any longer, and the fact that he couldn't even begin to guess what Draco thought about it added to his discomfort.

 

Until now, he'd been convinced that the need to talk to the person you'd just slept with was purely a girl thing. Now he suddenly wished nothing more than for Draco to open his mouth and give him some kind clue what was on his mind.

 

The silence between them was just about to become embarrassing when Draco, one black eyebrow arched, asked with a hint of reproach in his voice, "Well, do you want that kiss or not?"

 

The feeling of relief flooding through Harry was almost enough to make him light-headed. A second later, those wicked lips, which had featured prominently in every dirty fantasy he'd had during the last days, were on his again, and Harry gratefully let himself being swept up in the kiss. Last night had been frantic and desperate, but this felt _real_ – and so much better than anything he'd been able to conjure up in his fantasies. Draco tasted like toothpaste and cigarette smoke, none of which Harry would have considered terribly erotic before, but now it was perfect, and together with the feeling of Draco's tongue and teeth plundering his mouth, it made for the most mind-blowing kiss Harry had ever experienced.

 

Harry felt his heartbeat hammer against his ribs; he was almost painfully hard, and since he was pressed against Draco from head to toe, he was fully aware that Draco was in a similar state. He knew he should take things slowly, but every fibre of his body seemed to burn with helpless, desperate desire, wanting and needing _now_, right now –

 

Then Draco made that sound again, a strangled, low moan deep in his throat, and Harry was lost. They were rocking against each other, the friction of Draco's cock against his almost enough to make Harry come on the spot, but it wasn't enough like this, there was so much more he wanted –

 

He had trouble breathing, but somehow, he still managed to whisper against Draco's lips, "Want you, Draco – want you so much..."

 

"Harry, _wait_." Draco broke the kiss and moved away – just a few inches, but the sudden loss of contact still hit Harry like a splash of cold water.

 

"What's wrong?"

 

"Well, I – " Draco hesitated, as if he were searching for the right words. "You realise I'm – I mean, I don't really know what I'm doing here, remember?"

 

"You were doing fine last night," Harry reminded him as he leaned in to leave a trail of soft butterfly kisses along Draco's jawline.

 

Draco rolled his eyes. "Well, I've known how to _get_ a blow job for quite a few years now, and I suppose every male over the age of ten has figured out how to use his hands. But from this point onwards, it's rather... uncharted territory."

 

Harry couldn't remember a time when he'd seen Draco this insecure. It was strangely endearing.

 

"Here there be dragons, you mean?"

 

Draco flung an arm over his face with groan. "Potter, that was a _horrible_ pun."

 

"Sorry." Feeling oddly exhilarated, Harry began to kiss his way down Draco's neck and chest, paying close attention to the places that made Draco gasp when he nipped them gently with his teeth. The gasps turned into a whimper when he began to worry one of Draco's nipples with his tongue; emboldened, Harry moved his head to do the same to the other nipple when a faint, ragged white line just over Draco's sternum caught his eye.

 

"Is that..."

 

Draco didn't give him time to finish the question; he pulled Harry into another fierce kiss while his hand went to Harry's crotch. It was Harry's turn to moan when Draco's hand began stroking, a bit rougher than Harry usually liked it, but oh so good – so good, in fact, that it would all be over in a moment if they didn't slow things down.

 

It took Harry considerable effort to extricate himself, but he wanted more than just a hand job this time. Without turning his head, he groped for his wand which he'd left on the bedside table. Like every other spell he'd cast in this place, the incantation took an unfamiliar amount of concentration, but finally, he felt the faint tingle of magical energy he'd been aiming for wash over him.

 

Draco drew in a sharp breath. "What was that?"

 

Harry threw the wand over his shoulder without caring where it landed. "It's a spell for both preparation and protection. Unless you'd rather do this the Muggle way...?"

 

"No, it's fine," Draco said, a bit too quickly. "Where did you learn that? I've never heard of it before."

 

"Nifty, isn't it?" Harry smiled fondly. "I think you remember the one who taught it to me – from our Quidditch team days."

 

Draco groaned again. "Oh my God, you've been doing Oliver Wood."

 

"No," Harry grinned, "Marcus Flint."

 

"_Flint_?" Draco looked perfectly scandalised. "Our team captain was fraternising with the enemy?"

 

"I didn't mean back at school, you moron. I'll tell you the story sometime, but right now, there are other things I'd rather be doing." Harry tilted his head until his lips almost touched Draco's ear. "How about you?"

 

Draco hesitated again, but before he could say anything, Harry whispered in his ear, "You'll like this, I promise." He'd been determined to take things slowly if it killed him, but his resolve was gone the moment Draco relaxed against him, as if he'd finally decided to trust Harry. He didn't resist when Harry rolled him on his back, although his eyes widened when Harry straddled his hips and leaned forward a bit to position himself. "You – "

 

"Shhh," Harry interrupted him, "just let me..."

 

Draco's whole body tensed when Harry slowly sank down on Draco's cock. He had anticipated the burning sensation; the lubrication spell was well and good, but it didn't make up for the lack of preparation and the fact that it had been a while since he'd managed to get this far with anyone. Harry gritted his teeth and willed his muscles to relax. Draco's hands were suddenly on his hips, his fingernails digging into Harry's skin while Harry took him in as deep as he would go. The initial discomfort was quickly fading, and Harry felt almost giddy at the thought that this was really, truly happening, that he would not wake up this time to find it had merely been a particularly good wet dream again.

 

Draco's breath was coming in shallow gasps, and Harry saw him clench his teeth as if keeping himself from making a sound.

 

"Never done this with any of your girlfriends?"

 

Draco, eyes now squeezed shut, just shook his head. Harry leaned forward a bit, trying to get into a more comfortable position, and couldn't help grinning when Draco's eyes snapped open. "Like it?"

 

"What does it look like?" Draco sounded deliciously breathless, and Harry's grin widened.

 

"Looks like you assumed that I wanted to fuck _you_."

 

"I did." Finally, Draco would meet Harry's eyes. "After all, who'd have thought the great Harry Potter was a bottom?"

 

"Interesting choice of words for a man on his back." Harry rolled his hips, which earned him a very satisfying moan. Draco didn't seem inclined to keep talking, and Harry couldn't have agreed more. They eventually established a rhythm, with Draco's hands around Harry's waist pulling him down and his hips snapping up, pushing deeper into Harry.

 

It was harsh and rough, but Harry found he didn't mind at all. He tried to let go of all thoughts and only feel instead, enjoying the sensation of Draco thrusting inside him, the feeling of sweaty skin under his hands when he ran them over Draco's chest, teasing his nipples until Draco cried out.

 

Finally, Harry couldn't take it any more; his hand went to his own cock and began stroking in synch with Draco's thrusts. He was almost there, but so was Draco; his body felt taut as a bowstring under Harry's thighs, and he cried out again while his hips thrust up, hard, once more as he came. Harry began to stroke faster, his own orgasm building, and then he felt Draco's hand covering his own, the movements of their joined hands on his cock finally pushing him over the edge.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

Draco didn't move when Harry, still trying to catch his breath, flopped onto the bed next to him. He had an arm flung over his face again, and his chest, still splattered with Harry's come, was rising and falling rapidly; under the skin of his neck, Harry could see how his pulse was racing. Harry himself felt all but ready to slip into blissful, post-orgasmic sleep, but the fact that Draco wouldn't even look at him worried him a bit. He'd never been particularly cuddly, but now he'd have loved nothing more than to snuggle up against Draco and fall asleep with his arms around him. He didn't dare to, though, since he had no idea whether Draco would welcome that kind of gesture.

 

At last Draco, his arm still over his face, broke the silence by murmuring, "Well, this takes care of any lingering doubt I still might have had about my sexual orientation."

 

He sounded quite sanguine about it, which Harry noticed with no small amount of relief. He didn't point out that there were plenty of straight blokes who didn't mind the occasional thing with a man as long as they were topping, even though he'd never quite understood the rationale behind considering this kind of behaviour 'not gay'. "How so?"

 

Draco finally lowered his arm. "You see, with all the girlfriends I had – I mean, don't get me wrong, sleeping with them was nice enough, but I never quite saw what all the fuss was about."

 

Harry couldn't help grinning at this. "I take it now was different?"

 

"In about every way. Somewhat messier, too." Draco was looking down his chest, as if he weren't quite sure what to make of the sticky mess there.

 

"That's what Cleaning Charms are for. Wait, let me get my wand – "

 

"No need." Draco waved his hand, and Harry felt the familiar prickle of the charm wash over him.

 

"Show-off."

 

Now it was Draco's turn to grin. "You're quite welcome. Do you mind if I go to sleep for a bit now?"

 

"I certainly don't, but don't you have to work today?"

 

Draco stretched until his vertebrae popped, reminded Harry of a big, lazy cat. "Not until half past three. Any idea how late it is?"

 

Harry looked around to see if there was a clock anywhere in the room – but what he saw instead was Max, who was sitting on the windowsill and watching them with the kind of intense stare only cats are capable of.

 

"Draco, your cat is looking at us."

 

Draco craned his neck. "Is he? He's not supposed to get into the bedroom, but somehow, he always manages..." He paused when he saw Harry's expression. "Don't tell me it's bothering you that he watched us?"

 

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "I know this sounds stupid, but it feels – weird. I mean, why would a cat stare at two blokes having sex?"

 

Draco smirked. "Well, he's neutered, so he has to find ways to entertain himself, I suppose." He flung a pillow in the general direction of the window, missing Max by at least three feet. "Shoo, you fat old bastard!" The cat threw him a disdainful glance, jumped down from the windowsill and disappeared under the bed.

 

"Happy now?" Draco didn't even wait for Harry's answer; he closed his eyes and seemed fast asleep just moments later.

 

Harry had been all but ready to doze off too, but now he suddenly felt wide awake. He couldn't bring himself to tear his eyes away from Draco's face, amazed how different he looked when he was asleep. Draco seemed much younger like this, his face relaxed and unguarded, his lips slightly parted and a few strands of his hair falling over his eyes. Harry reached out to brush them away, careful not to wake Draco. He felt both elated and strangely restless at the same time; on the one hand, he wanted nothing more than to bask in the warm, content afterglow, but on the other hand, he couldn't get rid of the nagging feeling that there were still too many things left unsaid between them.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

Harry woke again to the sound of church bells ringing in the distance. The room was darker than it had been in the morning; the sky outside was covered in heavy clouds, as if another thunderstorm was brewing.

 

Draco seemed about to wake up too; his eyelashes were fluttering, although he screwed up his face in protest when Harry tugged at the blanket he'd pulled up to his chin. "Lemme sleep, s'only noon."

 

"Exhausted already? We need to work on your stamina."

 

As expected, this made Draco's eyes fly open immediately. He shot Harry a haughty glare which was somewhat ruined by the fact that his hair was falling into his face and his eyes were still puffy with sleep. "Give me five minutes to wake up properly, and I'll show you stamina, Potter."

 

"Harry." Feeling strangely reassured, Harry leaned in to kiss the tip of Draco's nose. "I'll take you up on that, you know."

 

"I should hope so." Draco pulled the blanket up again, although he kept his eyes open.

 

Harry gave him a smirk that he hoped would come across as suggestive. "Does that mean you liked the 'uncharted territory' so far?"

 

Draco watched him from under half-lowered eyelids, his face unreadable. "So far? Are you implying that there might be more?"

 

Harry's heart was suddenly in his throat; he couldn't help feeling that they weren't discussing sex any more. "Would you – want there to be?"

 

It was silent for a long time before Draco answered matter-of-factly, "I thought you had a job to go back to."

 

Harry took a deep breath, trying to calm down. He hadn't meant to have this conversation so soon, but there was nothing for it now. "I've done some calculating..."

 

"Yes?" Draco's expression still gave no indication about the kind of answer he might be hoping for.

 

When push came to shove, Harry was still a Gryffindor. "It seems I've got several months' worth of leave gathered up at this point. I could take some of that now – if you'd like me to stay."

 

For a moment, Draco remained perfectly still. Then he slowly, deliberately turned over on his side, facing away from Harry.

 

Harry stared at the back of Draco's head with a sinking feeling. So he'd managed to ruin everything just because he'd stupidly rushed in like –

 

He didn't get any further in his thoughts. Draco was reaching over his shoulder, taking hold of Harry's arm and pulling it across his chest so that Harry, caught unawares, suddenly found himself spooned snugly against Draco's back. Then Draco's hand was on Harry's, and lifting it to his lips, he brushed a quick kiss on their intertwined fingers.

 

Harry's breath caught in his throat. There were a hundred things he wanted to say, but he found himself at a loss for words. Draco seemed in no hurry to speak, and Harry could only hope that he wasn't misreading him now, because he wasn't sure how he'd –

 

Once again, Harry's racing thoughts were interrupted, this time by the calm, composed sound of Draco's voice.

 

"I think I'd like that."

 

He didn't let go of Harry's hand, and Harry rested his head on Draco's shoulder and closed his eyes.

 

Outside, the first faint growls in the distance announced the approach of another thunderstorm, but Harry didn't care. He was safe and warm with Draco in his arms, breathing in his scent and revelling in the feeling of Draco's skin against his own. He had no idea what tomorrow would bring, but for the first time in what seemed like forever, he realised that he couldn't wait to find out.

 

Perhaps, Harry reckoned, he _was_ going to see the sun rise over the Alps after all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

# FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this story, check out the "DVD extras" - missing scenes, little future ficlets, alternate POVs, and so on. You can find them here:
> 
> [Seven Days in June - the DVD extras](http://archiveofourown.org/works/895338/chapters/1729000)


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